Fourteenth Meeting
I read Henry’s paper:
“A good man will bring those with whom he comes in contact into harmonious relations with himself. It is not enough to have a good heart. Many people are always meaning to do good, but never do it. It is the actions that count; for we said: ‘Art (good) is self-expression and self-fulfilment.’
“Many things which we call virtues are only substitutes for love and sympathy, which we are outgrowing. The principal ones are justice, honesty, conformity, obedience and pity.
“Men have not perfect sympathy, but often do things at the expense of others. Therefore man, realizing his weakness, has made for himself a set of laws.”
I objected to his use of the word “pity” along with the other substitutes. We had another short talk on the subject.
Virginia said: “I would rather commit suicide than be pitied.”
“Then,” I answered, “since we do not wish to be pitied, we could not, with perfect sympathy, do so unto others.”
Virginia went on: “When a person who has some trouble or loss makes a great fuss over it, I must say I don’t think very well of him.”
“We expect people to bear life bravely,” I said, “and to help them do it, to do it altogether. A man who is prevented from helping by his own pity is like a man who, when he saw another blind, put out his own eyes in sorrow, instead of leading the blind.”
I said I wanted to speak of a subject that seemed especially to interest Virginia. I meant patriotism, but patriotism in a large and unusual sense. What were their ideas on this subject? Virginia implied that patriotism was not good, “because whenever you are patriotic for your own country, you have to be patriotic against other countries. You seem to be praising and helping your own at the expense of others.”
“That,” I said, “is just the trouble with the false view of patriotism, and that view has grown out of wars and conquests. For, naturally, whenever people fought for their country, they had to fight against another. But I see patriotism—and any loyalty or faithfulness—in a larger relation. Think for a moment what the word patriotism really means, in its verbal root, and you will see how it grows, how it begins at home, and ends by including the world. What does it mean?”
Henry remembered that it came from a word meaning “Father.”
“Yes,” I said, “it meant, originally, loyalty to our fathers, to our family; and so you must see what it would finally mean.”
“Because,” asked Ruth, “we are related to the whole world?”
“Yes,” I answered, “we are related to the whole world, we are children of all the nations; but most of all, of course, children of our fathers; so that, beginning at the centre, we shall spread to all sides, yet not lose the centre. The definite thing, the love for this land, this home, will come first, and include all the others. We will be patriotic for our Father, the world.”
“Do you suppose,” asked Marian, “that an Englishman could be patriotic for the United States?”
“Yes,” I said, “and I am glad you asked that, for it gives me a chance to tell you what forms patriotism is beginning to take. An Englishman, or American, may be patriotic for Anglo-Saxonism all the world over; for the English language and literature everywhere; he may dream of it as the world-language; and then, surely, he is patriotic for these States, as well as for England. I am not going to preach patriotism to you. I know you are all patriotic for this country, for Americanism, for the idea of democracy which America upholds. Surely the schools, from first to last, dwell so much upon it that an American child can hardly help being patriotic.”
I was surprised at the burst of answers.
Marian said, on the contrary, the school with its continual, boring insistence on patriotism, almost made one hate it; that no children liked to sing the patriotic songs. Ruth objected that singing patriotic songs was not patriotism. Alfred, Marian and Ruth spoke of the boredom of patriotic holiday celebrations in school, how the well-known men got up and, as Alfred put it, “said the same thing each time.” Marian said they had patriotism “thrown at them in chunks.” Florence added, she thought we felt unpatriotic, because we didn’t want to be like those who expressed that kind of patriotism.
We concluded, however, that after all we were patriotic in spite of the schools, and that America stood for something big, definite, wonderful. I told them that if only they had been away from it more, they would understand it better. And they all admitted that America, insulted with false criticism, would arouse them like a personal insult.
The picture, with its central, definite object, still suggests universal things. So one must begin with loyalty to first things, to family and State, before one can be loyal to the universe. I spoke of those French Socialists whose patriotism for the whole world had carried them to the point of unpatriotism to France, so that in a war they would wish to see their own country destroyed. Their loyalty to working-men the world over made them careless of the state at home.
“Only to working-men!” cried Virginia. “But I think one need be just as loyal to the rich, and that they are quite as much in need of reform and help.”
“I agree with you,” I answered.
Ruth said she could understand those French Socialists very well, and to her it seemed that from their own point of view they might be right.
I answered: “From their own point of view, of course. And they do want final, universal good; but they don’t see that to gain the large one must preserve the small, that the universal must begin with the particular.”
“Like some philosophers,” said Henry.
We discussed the subject of war—all disbelieving in it—without coming to any definite conclusion as to what we would do under any particular circumstance.
Virginia asked whether it would be wrong of a man, if his country went to war, to refuse to fight because he disbelieved in war. Henry said he thought it would be better to do as the fighting Quakers did, to fight, so that the war might soon be ended.
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.