Chapter VII: Front Matter (7)

Ruth said if all people refused to fight, war would end. I agreed with her, but said also: “If a man disbelieves in fighting, still, when he is struck, he defends himself—that is, if he has any spirit. So I would expect a man, no matter what his convictions, to defend his country when it is threatened and attacked.”

“Do you think,” they asked, “that Russians can be patriotic for Russia?”

“Yes,” I said, “and that is a patriotism of which we have not yet spoken, or perhaps thought. It is the patriotism that seems unpatriotic. The Russian revolutionists are patriotic, not for the Russia of to-day, but for the Russia that will be, for the Russia they are going to build, for the nation in their hearts. Often the most patriotic man is he who criticizes his country, who fights against the present state of things, who appears disloyal because his loyalty is large. Such were the colonists, loyal to the union and independence.”

I quoted that slogan at the time of the Spanish-American war: “My country, right or wrong, my country still.” They were indignant at such an appeal, and agreed with me that blind loyalty was slavishness. I told a story to illustrate what I meant.

Suppose a family to be in grave debt, but careless about paying, and unwilling to make sacrifices. One member, with the family honor at heart, insists on these sacrifices and hardships for all, until the debts are paid. His brothers and sisters may accuse him of unkindness and disloyalty, but he will be the truly loyal one.

Now, I asked, what was the next law in art?

Henry brought out his paper and read: “Must leave out the unimportant.”

“Yes,” I said, “and the next one reads: Must have variety and many-sidedness. Do you understand at all how these apply to life?”

“You don’t mean,” asked Marian, “that we are never to do anything unimportant, that we are always to be thinking about it?”

“No,” I answered, “certainly not. But I mean that we are to have a definite aim in life, that we are to know what we want most of all. Then we can avoid everything which interferes with this aim. We are to choose the sort of life that will help us to be what we wish to be, that will make us whole and harmonious.”

“I don’t know what I want to be,” said Marian. “I don’t think one need have a definite conscious aim.”

“You do not quite understand me, Marian,” I answered. “You need not choose now what your profession will be, or what definite thing you want most. Very few people as young as you have done that.”

Marian said: “Florence has.”

“Florence?” I asked. “She said she loved most to be loved.”

“We all do,” said Henry; “to be loved, and to love others.”

“I would like,” said Florence, “to dance as well as my dancing teacher.”

I expressed grave doubts as to the permanence of this ambition.

“But,” I said, “what I mean, Marian, is that you want to be a certain kind of person, that you must have an idea of yourself which, even unconsciously, you try to attain; and it is this ideal, this vision of the self you wish to be, and mean to be, that should color and shape your life, as an artist’s idea of his central figure and meaning controls his whole execution.”

“I’m sure I don’t think of it all the time,” she said; “I like just to live along, and dream, and be what I happen to be.”

“Now, Marian,” I answered, “you are saying what you think is true. But I will show you that it is not. You live for your desired self, even unconsciously. Do you not remember doing or leaving undone certain little things which your ideal of yourself wanted otherwise, and then reproaching yourself for days for this small lapse into selfishness or unkindness?”

They had all had this annoying experience, as well as I myself. Marian told how, when she was quite a small girl, something had happened that she had never forgotten. A little beggar-girl, with only rubbers over her stockings, came to the door and asked Marian for old clothes. Marian had been reading stories, and was longing to act them. But her mother was out, and she had not the courage to do anything; so she turned the child away with a mumbled excuse about her mother’s not being at home. And she had never forgiven herself.

Marian saw that what I meant by a definite aim in life was, after all, indefinite enough to suit her.

Virginia said: “When I want to do some kind or good thing which it is hard to do, because I lack courage, I make up my mind that I will do it anyway, without thinking; I walk right in, and then the rest is always easy and pleasant.”

“In other words,” I answered, “you manage yourself. I do believe it is good to know what you want to be, and how you want to be it, and then to avoid strenuously everything that interferes.”

We spoke of wasted and worthless conversation with “outsiders,” and I warned them all against boring people, or allowing themselves to be bored. It is better not to talk at all. Virginia said she always made people amuse her, which seemed to us a good way. I suggested getting people to tell of themselves, since all human nature is interesting. But Ruth objected that people who did it were the worst bores, and only conceited people _would_ do it.

“At any rate,” I said, “please don’t get into the habit of making flat conversation, for then you yourselves will degenerate into bores.” And we decided that merriment would cover many ills.

We spoke of the worth of knowledge. The boys and girls have to study subjects unprofitable to them, for the sake of passing certain examinations. This, of course, is a definite sacrifice for a definite reason. But it is necessary, in all studying, to choose some subjects and to sacrifice others. I said I would very much like to know everything.

“Yes,” Henry answered, “I always wish I might know everything there is to know.”

“But, of course, we can’t,” I said, “and so we have to choose first that knowledge which we need, which will make our life as we wish it to be.”

Alfred told us how he had chosen to study French and German instead of Latin, because they seemed more necessary to him, though he would like to know them all.

“And,” I said, “the thing you love you shall seek with your might. You must definitely want to be a certain sort of a person in life, else you may be no sort of person. Have you noticed how some people, who were quite charming in youth, ‘peter out’ when they grow older, how they lose all interest in things, and become dull? To me that seems unnecessary. Age may be just as full, interesting and active as youth, to those whose life has a definite aim and meaning.”

Henry said: “Yes, I wish to live long. I have heard people say they would not like to be old, and to be a burden to others.”

“But you,” I answered, “mean to live long and not be a burden to others.”

“Yes,” he said.

“You must concentrate,” I went on; “you must get out of life only what you need and want.”

Florence said she couldn’t concentrate in her studies, except when she loved them. Naturally, I answered, it was strong love that made us concentrate.

Virginia said: “I used to study, only instead of studying I looked out of the window.”

“But now, at your art,” I answered, “you work with concentration, because you love it.”

Henry remarked that perhaps, when she was looking out of the window, she studied the landscapes.

At this point Marian, hearing voices in the next room, whispered to Ruth whether she knew who was there.

“Strange,” I said. “Until you spoke of it, I did not notice any voices. Do you love this club? Well, I do, too; and when I am here, no matter what happened before, or will happen afterward, or may be happening now, I think of nothing but what we are doing, I forget everything else. Do you remember the difference between the painting and the photograph? The photographic plate takes every detail, unimportant and meaningless; the picture contains only that which makes it complete and beautiful. Let your life be a picture, not a photograph. Do not let your life be a sensitive plate that cannot defend itself against any impression. Let it be an artist’s work, chosen, complete, beautiful. Leave out what does not concern you.

“Now, what is it,” I asked, “which all of us do love best, and which includes all our lesser loves?”

Henry answered: “You mean complete sympathy and understanding.”

“Yes,” I went on, “and all our lives are different, definite expressions of that desire.”

We spoke a few words of those people who mistake the means for the end, who make an end of business, athletics, or even study, so that they forget these are only a means to the end, and destroy or waste their own powers in some pettiness.

“Each life,” I said, “must be a different, definite expression of the longing for unity.”

“Definite?” asked Marian again. “If I were always to be thinking what sort of person I meant to be, I would be dreadfully self-conscious.”

“No,” I said, “you would not think it, you would live it. Desire is a habit. Self-consciousness of the stilted sort attempts to realize what sort of person you appear or are, and then to act your part. Then you usually fail, and you are usually wrong in your estimate. But know what you long to be; and then be it, because of your strong desire. It is not necessary to have chosen your life-work now, but you will choose it some day, and meanwhile you want to be ready and open for it. You and Alfred have not yet chosen, nor need choose. But the others believe they have chosen. And there is no reason why each one should not do just what he sets out to do. Each life and each moment of each life is tremendously important. Each man is as great as he loves to be. The difference between the great genius and the common, scattered man, is the difference in desire. Great desire makes great deeds. It is not so much capacity, so called, as the desire, the concentration and the belief that you can.”

“Self-confidence,” they said.

“Yes, surely. When a man has his call, when he feels that he must do a thing, then he can. Did you ever think of the word ‘calling,’ what a tremendous thing it means?”

“Vocation,” said Ruth.

“Yes,” I said, “your vocation. Some of us have our call early, and some late, but we can always follow it to the end with love and courage. I believe that each one of you is going to do great things. I want you to believe that you are going to be great, for then you will.”

Henry said: “I mean to be a great man. I know I can, if I work for it. When some one found fault with me for criticizing Lincoln, because I was nobody, I answered that I meant to be greater than Lincoln. And I do.”

“And you shall. And I believe that Virginia will be as great an artist as she means to be. And I believe that if Florence persists, she shall dance better than Isadora Duncan, and make of dancing a great and noble art.”

“It _is_ so,” said Marian and Ruth. “It is an expression of the highest art.”

“Surely it is,” I said. “And I believe that Ruth will reform the whole kindergarten system, and give us new and finer ideas on education.”

“I will,” said Ruth.

“I believe it and know it, too,” said Marian; “she had her call early. She has always been teaching little children.”

“Ambition is good,” I said; “it is best. He who desires great things will do greatly. Genius is desire. And great genius is most desire.

“Each one,” I said, “will then be a person with a meaning, but for all that a large, many-sided person. Do you understand, Marian? In a picture there is light and shade, and contrast makes completeness. So in life, rest and work and play, merriment and seriousness, study and exercise, and all the many different things that make up life are needed to make it whole. I believe in concentration, in variety.”

“What do you mean,” asked Florence, “by concentration in variety?”

“I mean,” I said, “that we will make every activity in life the sort we need, that our pleasures will suit our studies. Our taste and liking in every kind of thing will harmonize. We will like only good nonsense. Even our recreation must have a certain character, and satisfy our taste. Each person stands for a definite vision of life.”

Virginia said: “At the academy show last year, you remember that picture by Pischoto of an Italian garden, with a fountain? It was calm, the water poured down softly, all was still. At the Spanish exhibition, I saw a picture by Sorolla of the same spot; but it was jubilant, the water leaped, the sun sparkled, everything was gay. It was the difference in temperament that made the same spot unlike.”

“Yes,” I said; “I am glad you told us that. For I believe each person must be a rhythm in life, must stand for himself, and be a force and a measure of life to those about him.”

We spoke a few words more, to make this clear; and then I read to them two slips from the Ruskin calendar, which Ruth had brought:

“All that is highest in Art, all that is creative and imaginative is formed and created by every artist for himself, and cannot be repeated or imitated by others.”

“Remember that it is of the very highest importance that you should know what you are, and determine to be the best that you may be.”

Next meeting will be Ruth’s meeting on Christian Science.

FIFTEENTH MEETING

We had our meeting on Christian Science.

I wish to record it in so far only as it related to our planned work, as I think neither Ruth’s exposition nor our answers were original or enlightening.

I had given her a list of topics. The first was the idea of God. In this we found we agreed, and it gave occasion for much reviewing. Ruth had translated all her ideas from the vocabulary of Christian Science to that of our club, and this helped her to shape her thoughts. We spoke at some length of the personal and universal self. They called it “two selves,” and I answered them that it was only one, the one including the other.

With the subject and matter and spirit we had some trouble. They all understood what I said, but failed—I, too—to understand Ruth; and we are not sure now whether she and I agree.

Marian said: “Scientists speak of ‘dead matter,’ of all matter as dead. Is that so?”

I repeated my ideas on spirit and matter—all form is an expression of spirit—and also insisted on the limitations of our knowledge. I said: “Matter seems never to be dead, because when one force takes leave of it, another comes into possession, and decay is always the beginning of new life.”

Marian answered: “You mean the particles in this table are held together by a force?”

“Surely.”

“What is it? Does it feel?”

Again I pleaded ignorance.

We spoke of form as the eternal changing expression of spirit, of time as merely the measure and rhythm of progress or change. So Ruth found me willing to grant that all bad was a condition, not an unalterable thing, and that time was only a convention.

Concerning immortality Ruth believed all I do, and more besides. Alfred now agrees with me. He, too, feels that in some way he must continue to be.

Of the individual—or soul—Ruth thought as I. We also agreed on moral good and bad, and on the use and manner of prayer.

Marian asked me: “Why, if mind force forms body, can we not make our bodies perfect at once?”

I answered her that mind force had formed our bodies in the past, as they were now, and that our present, mental force was making future physical conditions; that all things went slowly, and the results of the past were inevitable. I spoke of the influence mind and action had on the body, on circulation, for instance. I said again that physical perfection could not be the aim, but only one of the conditions of progress.

On the subject of disease and cure Ruth and I disagreed entirely. But this we both held to be not tremendously important. I do not care here to record the arguments—not in the least bitter or heated—which we gladly left in air. None of us was in the least convinced by Ruth, and we were frank—she, as well as we—in our expressions of opinion.

So we found Ruth was with us in all that mattered, and had been candidly with us all the while. The children said the club had not changed their views, but enlarged and ordered them.

I read aloud the Christian Science prayer Ruth had brought some weeks ago:

MY PRAYER

“To be ever conscious of my unity with God, to listen for his
voice, and hear no other call. To separate all error from my
thought of man, and see him only as my father’s image, to show
him reverence and share with him my holiest treasures.

“To keep my mental home a sacred place, golden with gratitude,
redolent with love, white with purity, cleansed from the flesh.

“To send no thought into the world that will not bless, or
cheer, or purify, or heal.

“To have no aim but to make earth a fairer, holier place, and to
rise each day into a higher sense of Life and Love.”

We liked all of it, save the words “cleansed from the flesh.” Ruth explained that this meant cleansed from the idea of evil in the flesh.

“Then,” I answered, “the author should have said, though it is less poetical, ‘cleansed from the prejudice against the flesh.’ I would agree with that.”

Virginia again suggested the subject of animal consciousness, by telling Mark Twain’s story of the cat and the Christian Scientist. Ruth said that just now she was studying this subject.

Florence asked: “Do you believe jelly-fish are conscious?”

I reminded them of Cope’s theory of consciousness and desire as the cause of life, and of the higher consciousness swamping the lower. They remembered it, and were interested. Virginia said: “It is like the stars, which are always there, but cannot be seen when the sun shines.”

“Yes,” I answered, “the light of our larger consciousness hides those lesser feelings.”

We spoke of other religions and creeds, and Henry used the term—referring to Unitarianism—“a mild form of Christianity.”

Marian asked me whether mine was an absolute belief in an absolute truth.

“Because,” she said, “I don’t believe any one can find the absolute truth.”

“You must see,” I answered, “that I believe in a growing truth. Why else had we called ourselves Seekers? And I believe we will be seekers all our lives. All I have given you is a direction.”

“I am not sure,” answered she, “that I want just one direction.”

“He who would go in all directions at once, must stand still,” I replied.

“Perhaps I must,” she said. “I believe only one thing absolutely, and that is that I am immortal. And I don’t think I believe that just because I like to.” Still, when I questioned her on the whole self, and progress toward sympathy as the good, she fully agreed. She is afraid of accepting too much. This is a large truth, different for each one, able to include all, growing, forever changing, and forever the same, like life itself. I said: “We will always be Seekers together.”

I now read Henry’s paper:

“We spent a few minutes in speaking of Patriotism. Patriotism is loyalty to our fathers, and from this it comes to be loyalty toward our country, and then to the whole world. No one should be patriotic to the extent of ‘My country right or wrong,’ nor should any one be so patriotic in the cause of humanity as a whole as to forget his duty to his country and his home. The patriotic man is not always the right man, but the man with ‘Firmness in the right as God gives him to see right.’

“Many people spoil their lives, and even those of others, by putting unimportant things on a level, or perhaps higher than the really important questions of their life. There are women who try to teach or do settlement work because they think it a duty, even though they have no taste or ability in those lines, and their right place is in their own homes. The farmer who comes to the city and tries to be a business man, will not, as a rule, succeed. Every man has some work at which he is best, and he should find out what his calling is, and then give his best efforts to that.

“To represent light in a picture, we must have shadows, and without variation life would be dull. Hobbies are very good; and if a business man delights in visiting picture galleries, or baseball games, he will be better off if he gratifies these hobbies.”

Henry’s paper aroused some comment. They criticized Henry for saying one should not be “so patriotic in the cause of humanity as a whole as to forget his duty to his country.” They said patriotism for humanity must be patriotism for one’s own land. We agreed that his error was one of words rather than of meaning.

The girls teased him about his opinion on woman’s whole duty, and accused him, truly, it seems, of being opposed to woman’s suffrage. I said I wished it were not out of our present plan to argue all those questions, but we would not discuss definite social or political problems at all, since the girls and boys had neither the experience nor the judgment to profit by them now.

“Do you mean,” asked Marian, “whether the very rich man ought to keep his money, or throw it out on the street to everybody?”

“Yes—if you wish to put it that way.”

“I am certain,” said Florence, “no one could change my views on social questions.”

“No,” I answered, “probably not. But no doubt you will often change them for yourself.”

“Very likely,” she said.

I now read Marian’s paper:

“Our discussion last week at the club was on various subjects. The first was patriotism. We should be patriotic for our own country and the whole world. If we are rightly patriotic for our own country, we will be so for the whole world. It is not patriotism to say I am for the whole world, but not for my own country. This would be very inconsistent. Patriotism does not consist of saying your own country is always right, and that another is wrong because it is not your own. We also discussed the question of choosing professions, and agreed that we should always choose what we like, whether it is conventional or not. It is better to be a good dancer than a poor teacher. In doing work for others, we ought not to choose settlement work because our friends are doing it, or because we or some one else thinks we ought to. If it is work that appeals to us, we should do it; but, if not, we might go among the young people of our own circle, and help them. Another thing we spoke of was _boring_ and _being bored_. Never bore any one or allow them to bore you. If you don’t know anything to say worth while saying, keep still. If some one else bores you, look at them from some standpoint such that, if they don’t interest you, at least they make you laugh at them. If possible, don’t frequent the society of people that bore you.”

They asked, had I not said it was wrong to laugh “at” people. Yes, I answered, malicious laughter was bad, as malicious criticism was bad, but there was a kindly laughter, that laughed with people, and smiled at their superficial weaknesses in a loving way openly, as we smile at our own. In this way we often laughed at, and with, the people we loved most. But, I said, let us never forget or disrespect the self, the growing, wonderful self in every creature, especially in every human being.

Now Virginia and Marian have their troubles. They do dislike certain people, and they like talking about them. Virginia said a fool was a fool, and continued to be a fool, even if you thought of him as a developing self. Marian objected that though she agreed with me, she couldn’t live up to it.

I said: “I am not going to tell you what to do, or preach you a sermon. Only I want you to see the thing in a true light. I find it impossible to sympathize with some people, and I cannot help disliking those who have done harm to any one I love. But I look upon it as a weakness and limitation of myself, which I mean to overcome. Remember that every self you fail to understand is a limitation of yourself. Every judgment you make of another is a judgment of yourself. I wish one could say, not: ‘I hate that person,’ but ‘I am _one who hates_ that person’; the hate being a quality of your own, and reflecting only upon yourself.”

“I have said of people,” said Virginia, “that I did not see how they could have any friends.”

“But they did have friends,” I answered, “and the limitation was in your power of seeing. When you speak ill of a person, you are defining yourself.”

“It would be much pleasanter,” said Virginia, “to think it was a definition of the other person.”

“No doubt,” I answered; “do as you please, but remember what you are doing. Realize your limitation as such, at least.”

Marian said: “I would like to be able to think of myself as perfect.”

“At once, Marian, dear? Then make a little set of rules for yourself, and follow them, like the petty moralists, and be perfect. But we, of the growing truth, cannot reach perfection. At least, we want to know what is good, and strive for it. I can tell you more than I can do, because I see ahead. Let us remember that with our judgments and sympathies we are measuring ourselves.”

SIXTEENTH MEETING

I read Henry’s paper, which expressed his point of view:

“This meeting was spent in talking of Christian Science. We agree that we are seekers for a great truth and complete harmony, which we call God. We also agree in believing in immortality, though we do not know what our existence will be like after that of our present state.

“The difference seemed to lie in our idea of matter, and, as the belief in this is closely connected with the idea of cure, we did not agree on the latter subject.

“I believe that matter is the creation of spirit; and science tells us that no matter ever ceases to exist, though it may change its form. As I understand it, the Christian Scientist says that what we call matter is not permanent, and therefore does not exist at all. But when he says it is not permanent, I think he only considers it as a definite shape, such as a house or a table, and he overlooks its different forms.

“If the Christian Scientist’s idea of matter were correct, his idea of cure would also be correct. I think he says: ‘There is no matter, and therefore, there can be no material suffering. Consequently, all pain and sickness are spiritual conditions.’ To all those who believe in matter as a real and permanent thing, this idea is impossible.”

I said: “I must insist on my ignorance on this subject. Matter to me seems permanent, a something that constantly changes form, unknowable except in form; thus form always seems to me the expression of an idea, that is, of the spirit. I know matter only through spirit or consciousness.” They all agreed.

Now, I said, we would go on to the next law in art, and see what its application might be. Did they like, I asked, to take up each law of art in turn, and see what was its relation to life?

“Yes,” Henry said, “and doing so makes the laws in art much clearer to me. When you tell me their application to life, it helps me to understand their meaning in pictures.”

“That,” said I, “depends upon your temperament. Another might find just the opposite to be true, that knowledge of the laws of art made them clearer in life.”

“Yes,” said Virginia, “I do.”

“The next law,” I said, “is: ‘Art must not be partisan.’”

“It seems to me,” said Marian, “the application of that to life is quite clear already.”

“Why, how would you explain it?”

Evidently one must take sides in life. How, then, not be partisan? Virginia said: “Everything has two sides.”

“Yes,” I answered, “and the question is how to use them both, how to be for, and yet not against. Every work of art is for something; it stands for beauty, order, completeness. But it is against nothing. The moment it stands against something, it is not art. Lincoln’s life shows so well what I mean. I wonder whether you will understand how?”

But they did not. Henry said it was because he stood for the Union, but not against slavery, and looked upon emancipation as only a side issue, to be used for the sake of the Union. The others said still more uncomprehending things, and so forced me to tell them what I meant. I said Lincoln stood for a cause, for an idea, and not against any man. He wanted to win all to his side, to make his side the whole, the Union. Be for a cause, for a purpose, mean something, and strive for its fulfilment; but do not be against persons, against parties. After all, men can be won only if you are also for them, as Lincoln was also for the Southerners. He was willing to work with his political enemies for the Union, since he felt no enmity to men.

“No,” said Henry, “for his Secretary of State, Stanley, was his political enemy.”

The Red Cross nurses are not less at one with the purpose of their country, though they nurse and tend with equal kindness the wounded foe.

“Then,” Virginia went on, “Dickens is not a great artist in those parts of his books where he becomes bitter, and hates the characters of whom he writes?”

“No,” I answered, “surely not.”

“One feels that writer to be much greater,” she said, “who sympathizes with and understands and loves even his worst characters. And I think Dickens has not a good influence in those books where he arouses hatred of people, and does not help the feeling of sympathy.”

We spoke of political reforms—they are quite unformed and uninstructed in social thought—and then went on to school factions. Was it not true that they admired most the boy or girl who worked for a cause, without bitterness against any person? They spoke of class presidents and school parties, and discussed the thing among themselves. Ruth said that the best class president was always the one who had most enemies, for some girls liking her so much, many others were sure to dislike her.

I answered: “The person who stands for a purpose will have many against him, and he will not care. But he will not be against them. And in the end he will win, as Lincoln has won the Southerners. They may still be bitter against the North, but they join the Northerners in honoring Lincoln, the man, for they know he worked for them.

“You may have noticed that so far we have spoken of self-development and personal growth; and to you, at present, that is the most important thing. But I want to speak a few words of sympathy with those we do not know, of our relations with the world of all men.” I said they had too little experience to form definite ideas on that tremendous, complicated thing called society. I wanted to give them only a few of my ideas that might come back to them later, when they understood more.

I said: “I want you to think of society as a big self, as the rest of yourself, as one vast whole, in which each man in so many mysterious ways affects each other man, that none can be right until all are right. Have you ever thought of the relations of people with other people whom they never know, of all the things that are done for us by strangers?”

“Yes,” said Florence, “I have thought of it, for we once spoke of it in another class.”

“Consider it,” I went on, “this table at which we sit, the clothes we wear, the food we eat, everything, everything that we use, is made for us by so many hands, all related to us and all affected by our need and use of them. Have you ever thought what the word Democracy means?”

Yes, they answered, they knew. Henry said it meant all people should have their rights. I said it meant even more. Did they remember the three old catchwords of Democracy: Equality, Fraternity——

“And Liberty,” said Ruth.

“Yes, and Liberty. But I do not believe that all people are equal.”

“No,” said Virginia, “I am quite sure they are not.”

I went on: “Democracy stands for this, that they all have the right to be equal. We must grant this, not for any altruistic reason, but because we need and want them all, because we want to miss nothing. We want each one to have the right and the chance to develop to be the best he may be, because that, too, will be best for us. And we feel that every living being is capable of immense development. For there is one thing in us all that is equal; whether it be big or little, it is the same in us all, and that is self. I feel reverence and wonder for self. Every baby seems marvellous to me for this reason; he is a new self. And whenever I stop to think, when I am with strangers, and with people, no matter how uninteresting, I have the strong feeling of kinship and mystery. Do you ever feel so?”

“Sometimes,” said Virginia. “I feel that way in snatches.”

“I never think about it,” said Marian, “but sometimes the feeling comes.”

Florence said: “I feel that way with things more than with people.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, for instance, with the ocean or mountains.”

“But,” I said, “there you cannot _know_. With people it is so real and close.”

The trouble is, they cannot feel so with those they dislike or wish to criticize; and this subject comes up again and again, with amusing variations.

Virginia takes dislikes to faces; Florence cannot “stand” some people whom she greatly admires; Marian will not be deprived of the pleasure of “knocking” one particular girl. From what I gather, their gossip is not of the malicious sort, and this over-criticism and sensitiveness is, as I told them, a weakness and limitation of youth. They have not yet learned to use the good of people for their own good. For people in the street, however, they often have intense sympathy; and kindness for the stranger. Marian spoke again of the apartment houses behind her school, with their hundreds of windows.

“You would like to tear their walls away, wouldn’t you,” asked Ruth, “to see what is going on?”

“I don’t know,” said Marian, “but I can’t help thinking of all those different lives in there.”

Virginia said whenever her mother saw strangers who looked as if they liked her, she spoke to them.

“That,” I answered, “can seldom be done, except with children; because, you see, the world is not as we wish it, though it might be better were it so; and since the other person may not understand, we dare not try to understand him. Often on a sunny, happy morning, when I get into a car, I feel like greeting the motorman, and every person I meet. But how can I? They would misunderstand.”

“Perhaps,” said Virginia, “that is the motive of the fresh young men who sometimes try to speak to you on the street.”

“There’s just the trouble,” I answered, “that it isn’t their motive, and so it cannot be ours.”

Ruth told us how at the Christian Science church that morning she had left something undone which she regretted. She said: “There was a young man who did not seem to know any one, and he looked lonesome and uncomfortable. I felt as if I ought to go up to him and make him welcome, but I had not the courage.”

“And I think you were right,” I answered her, “for he might not have understood your motive. And yet again he might. It is hard to tell. I am sorry to say we have often to wrong people in this matter.”

I spoke of the sufferings and the wrongs of society, and of how we must realize that these are our sufferings and our wrongs.

“Yes,” said Marian, “but what can we do? We can’t do anything.”

“There is very little we can do, except to be on the right side, and therefore ready to do. I want to have you see the thing as it is, to be conscious of the whole, as your whole self, so that you will act according to that knowledge.”

“Don’t you think,” asked Marian, “that a great many people act the same way, without knowing why they do it?”

“Yes,” I answered, “or else they are only half conscious, or think they have some other motive. But I believe in being fully conscious, and doing things with freedom and from conviction.”

“I don’t believe,” said Marian, “that while I act I think of why I am acting.”

“No,” I answered, “I am quite certain that you do not, and that you never will. No man thinks while he acts. The thinking is done long before. And then the action comes of itself. If you always think and feel a certain way, the good, true way, you need not trouble over your actions. They will be right. Do you suppose the man who gives up his life to save another thinks of what he is doing, and why? He is doing what he must. But all his life long he has been thinking in such a way, and living in such a way, that no other action would be possible.”

I said again the quotation from St. Augustine: “‘Love God, and do as you please,’ for if you love the good, wholly, you can do only the good.

“Remember,” I said, “that if the contagiously sick are not cared for, we shall all be ill; and, just so, starvation, poverty, sin, hurt each one of us, wherever they be, and must be cured for our own sake. Let us get over the self-righteous, sentimentally virtuous feeling which I fear charity has given many people. For that reason I have always disliked the word ‘charity.’”

“Yes,” said Ruth, “so have I.”

“But the virtuous feeling is very pleasant,” Virginia said.

“Hardly,” I answered, “so sane and sound as the pleasant feeling of helping ourselves, all together.”

“The word ‘charity,’” said Marian, “comes from a Greek word meaning gratitude, the word ‘charis.’”

“I had always thought of it,” I said, “as coming from the Latin ‘carus,’ meaning love. But that is interesting. For gratitude is always a debt paid. And so, I fear, all our charity is a debt partly and never wholly paid. The most that a man can give, being able to give, still leaves him more than his share. And that is why I seldom have the joy untainted, of which Virginia speaks.”

Virginia said it made her glad to see people happy because of her. She said: “Once three of us gave a little boy a ten-cent plaything, and it made him so happy we felt as though we had done something fine.”

Ruth agreed with me that it was impossible to overcome a feeling of personal guilt at the sight of misery.

“You see,” I went on, “that for the rich poverty is as bad as for the poor. Drunkenness and misery ask their price of the rich man.”

“Yes,” said Virginia, “for to see poor and drunken people bothers the rich man.”

“She is quite right,” I said; “poverty does and must bother the rich man, and that is just why he must get rid of it. Wells, the socialist, once said he dared not let any man be sick or poor or miserable, and bring up sick, poor, miserable children, for he could not tell what man’s grandchild would one day marry his grandchild.”

“That is an interesting way of looking at it,” said Marian. “I never thought of that.”

“So you see,” I went on, “we can no more praise ourselves for helping to better the world than we can praise people—except for their good sense and wisdom—when they put up hospitals for contagious diseases, and separate those who suffer from them. Did you ever think of it, that to take care of the weak strengthens the strong? The man who cares for two gets the strength of two.”

Florence asked: “What if there were no weak?” A good question, but an unanswerable one, from lack of experience.

“It is good,” I went on, “to use our powers, to strengthen them; and we can use them only through others. I have heard people say it is foolish for the strong to spend themselves on the weak. To me that seems untrue.”

“Yes,” said Virginia, “what is their strength for, if not to use it!”

“Sparta,” I said, “has left no trace but her history, because she cared only for physical strength, and wasted the strength and power that are in weakness.”

“I wish she had not left her history,” they said, thinking of the hard names.

“Everything leaves history,” sighed Marian.

“We can use all men,” I went on, “and every man does something for us that we cannot do for ourselves. The world is like a vast body, in which hand and head do each its part; and the head shall not despise the hand.”

“I don’t like to think of it in that way,” said Ruth, “to think of different people as different parts of the body, for some would have to be way down at the foot.”

“Oh, Ruth,” I answered, “I believe you are despising the foot! That is because you don’t think well enough of the body. But Florence knows better. She probably thinks her feet the most important part of all. When I spoke of the body, I meant that each part was equally necessary to all the others. But I suppose each one of us here would like to think of himself as a brain-cell.”

“We like to flatter ourselves,” said Henry.

I spoke to them of the modern trend in judging crime and meting punishment. Henry already understood this. We spoke of “homes” instead of prisons, of treating the bad as abortive and undeveloped, as moral idiots and invalids, and of using for our good and their happiness all the powers they possessed. We would hate badness, but not the bad man. How could we? Each one acts according to his desires, and in that sense selfishly; and our character depends on how large we are, how much we desire. The man who wants to be richer than his neighbor will act otherwise than the man who wants to share and enjoy the riches and happiness of all his neighbors, and make the whole world his home. Our desires are the measure of our growth. And some are more developed than others.

“Some are so undeveloped,” said Virginia, “that they seem almost like animals.”

“I wondered why Virginia hadn’t mentioned that sooner,” said Marian.

We went on to the next law, that art must give the impression of truth. How does it apply? I said they must see that the telling of truth was not the whole of true relation.

“And there may be even a kind of truth-telling which is essentially untrue; I mean truth told maliciously, truth told for the purpose of hurting. That makes an untrue relation between people, even though it be true in fact; just as the ugly picture, truly representing an ugly thing in an ugly way, does not seem true.”

Virginia said: “As if one woman said to another woman: ‘I saw your husband drunk last night,’ and the other woman knew it already. It would be quite true, but unnecessary.”

“Exactly.”

I spoke of the importance of praise and encouragement to others, and of kind, true criticism. At first they all protested that they did not like over-much praise. No, I said, not over-much, nor praise alone; I hated to be “damned with faint praise,” but I loved praise and blame combined in such measure, that I felt the thing done was worth doing, and yet saw where it was wrong, and how it might be righted. I said all teachers ought to praise and blame in this fashion—never forgetting the praise.

“They don’t have time for it in school,” said Ruth.

“Ruth,” I answered her, “just for a teacher of small children, such encouraging critical power is most necessary.”

“Yes,” she said, “I know. I mean to have it.”

I went on: “When I criticize a child’s drawing, for instance, and find six wrong lines in it, and one right line, I will insist on the worth of that right line, and show how the other six can and ought to be made equally good. One can always point to the wrong, without hurting, when one insists on the right.”

And now we passed to a difficult and engrossing subject: what things are worth while in personal social life. At this period of life it concerns the girls chiefly; but it could not be skipped for that reason. And the boys were interested listeners.

I spoke again of “prettiness” in art. Did they remember? Virginia said, those painted merely prettily who tried to please the crowd for the sake of money or applause. Yes, I answered, they tried to please those who could not understand them or truly judge them. And so there is a prettiness of manner and life which appeals to the stranger and acquaintance, but does not win the friend; the merely social prettiness, that has no true worth.

What did I mean? asked Florence.

“I mean,” I said, “a mixing of values—giving up what is worth more, for what is worth less, and, usually, because we don’t realize what we are doing. For instance, ever so many will go to much greater trouble to please acquaintances than friends, and even ask their friends to ‘let them off’ for the sake of their acquaintances.”

“That is,” said Florence, “because we know our friends will forgive us.”

“Yes,” I answered, “and it is a poor reason, for finally we will not have any to forgive us.”

“I know a girl,” said Marian, “who has ever so many acquaintances, and no friends.”

“When I think of society,” Virginia said, “in the large sense of all people, the only class I don’t think of as belonging to society, are just the society girls.”

“That,” I answered, “is foolish; for they do belong to it, and can be a very important part of it, if they wish.”

Marian looked puzzled. “It is all right,” she asked, “isn’t it, for girls to go into society?”

“Surely,” I answered; “not only all right, but very good, if they do it in the best way. But I think it a terrible waste for girls to do nothing but go into society, to live only for that, and rest only for that, and care only for the superficial show of it, for luxury and money-spending.”

We spoke of luncheons and parties, and all sorts of festivities where decoration and show count, and tried to put decoration in its subordinate place. “People are apt,” I said, “to lose the real thing in the glamor, to care to outdo each other only in expensiveness and show, instead of remembering that pleasant surroundings are merely surroundings. Like the woman who would spend all her time on her household, and waste herself to make it beautiful, instead of remembering that its beauty could count only as a setting for herself and her greater work. It’s a pity to waste good art on poor subjects.”

“One must be all-sided,” said Marian, “you told us so. I know a girl who did college and society and housekeeping all at once.”

“And all well?” I asked.

“I think so,” she answered, “though I’m not so sure about the college part.”

“That is just the danger,” I said, “and a danger I wish you all to avoid. I don’t want one of you, when you leave school, to degenerate into a frivolous, silly society girl. You won’t, will you?”

They all said they wouldn’t. Virginia and Ruth were positive they couldn’t.

“Because,” I went on, “many girls do it who seemed serious and intelligent while at school. I will tell you why they do. They are apt to think school in itself so intellectual, that they particularly avoid, at other times, thinking seriously or reading good books or having sensible conversations. And, indeed, school does keep them thinking, but not of their own accord. So, when they are graduated, they stop all thinking, go into society, and wait to get married.”

“And some women,” said Marian, “get so uninteresting after they marry!”

“Yes,” I answered, “it is true, and it is a pity. Naturally, every girl expects to marry, and has the right to expect it. But if she folds her hands and waits for it, or goes out and dances and waits for it, she will hardly be fit when the time comes.”

“I think it is disgusting,” said Marian, “for a girl to be ‘on the market.’”

“So do I,” I answered. “And no wonder that those girls, when they marry, become dull and ‘settled,’ and do not grow with their children. For, you see, they were ‘finished’ when they left school. I believe that when a girl leaves school she should go on working and growing and learning all her life long, whether she marry or not.”

Virginia said: “I have learnt so many, many things since I left school last year.”

“Of course,” they answered, “at art school.”

“No,” she said, “I don’t mean that. I learn more out of school than in it.”

“The independent woman,” I said, “who has some work and aim, who can support herself if need be, and who does some definite work in life, whether or not she supports herself, will not stagnate when she marries, because she has been growing all the time. When her children grow up, she will grow with them, and learn and change and think all her life.”

“Must she do some definite thing?” asked Henry skeptically.

Florence said: “I know you think, Henry, that she should be good and help around the house.”

“I think,” I said, “that she must have a definite thing to do in life, though not necessarily to support herself by money-making. She may study, if she should wish to prepare for more difficult work, or she may have a household of people to care for, and even other people’s children to bring up, just as a married woman might.”

Good manners and politeness next engaged our attention.

Ruth is a great stickler for manners, especially in boys, and not a very good judge of character, so she has to make much of evident, superficial characteristics. Marian, on the other hand, is an excellent judge of character. Marian asked me whether I thought manners important, and what I thought politeness meant. I said good manners were the natural expression of kindness, but that one often met good people who were bores, nevertheless, simply out of awkwardness; that many young boys were so, and Ruth ought to teach them better. We quoted some examples of false good manners, good simply for effect, which usually were self-exposed at last. I said: “That people with kind manners are thought the best-bred and finest, is but another sign that the world of men goes in ‘our’ direction.”

“Yes,” said Marian, “I see how you mean.”