O.M. No, you mean Shakespeare’s _imitations_. Shakespeare created
nothing. He correctly observed, and he marvelously painted. He exactly
portrayed people whom _God_ had created; but he created none himself.
Let us spare him the slander of charging him with trying. Shakespeare
could not create. _He was a machine, and machines do not create_.
Y.M. Where _was_ his excellence, then?
O.M. In this. He was not a sewing-machine, like you and me; he was a
Gobelin loom. The threads and the colors came into him _from the
outside_; outside influences, suggestions, _experiences_ (reading,
seeing plays, playing plays, borrowing ideas, and so on), framed the
patterns in his mind and started up his complex and admirable
machinery, and _it automatically_ turned out that pictured and gorgeous
fabric which still compels the astonishment of the world. If
Shakespeare had been born and bred on a barren and unvisited rock in
the ocean his mighty intellect would have had no _outside material_ to
work with, and could have invented none; and _no outside influences_,
teachings, moldings, persuasions, inspirations, of a valuable sort, and
could have invented none; and so Shakespeare would have produced
nothing. In Turkey he would have produced something—something up to the
highest limit of Turkish influences, associations, and training. In
France he would have produced something better—something up to the
highest limit of the French influences and training. In England he rose
to the highest limit attainable through the _outside helps afforded by
that land’s ideals, influences, and training_. You and I are but
sewing-machines. We must turn out what we can; we must do our endeavor
and care nothing at all when the unthinking reproach us for not turning
out Gobelins.
Y.M. And so we are mere machines! And machines may not boast, nor feel
proud of their performance, nor claim personal merit for it, nor
applause and praise. It is an infamous doctrine.
O.M. It isn’t a doctrine, it is merely a fact.
Y.M. I suppose, then, there is no more merit in being brave than in
being a coward?
O.M. _Personal_ merit? No. A brave man does not _create_ his bravery.
He is entitled to no personal credit for possessing it. It is born to
him. A baby born with a billion dollars—where is the personal merit in
that? A baby born with nothing—where is the personal demerit in that?
The one is fawned upon, admired, worshiped, by sycophants, the other is
neglected and despised—where is the sense in it?
Y.M. Sometimes a timid man sets himself the task of conquering his
cowardice and becoming brave—and succeeds. What do you say to that?
O.M. That it shows the value of _training in right directions over
training in wrong ones_. Inestimably valuable is training, influence,
education, in right directions—_training one’s self-approbation to
elevate its ideals_.
Y.M. But as to merit—the personal merit of the victorious coward’s
project and achievement?
O.M. There isn’t any. In the world’s view he is a worthier man than he
was before, but _he_ didn’t achieve the change—the merit of it is not
his.
Y.M. Whose, then?
O.M. His _make_, and the influences which wrought upon it from the
outside.
Y.M. His make?
O.M. To start with, he was _not_ utterly and completely a coward, or
the influences would have had nothing to work upon. He was not afraid
of a cow, though perhaps of a bull: not afraid of a woman, but afraid
of a man. There was something to build upon. There was a _seed_. No
seed, no plant. Did he make that seed himself, or was it born in him?
It was no merit of _his_ that the seed was there.
Y.M. Well, anyway, the idea of _cultivating_ it, the resolution to
cultivate it, was meritorious, and he originated that.
O.M. He did nothing of the kind. It came whence _all_ impulses, good or
bad, come—from _outside_. If that timid man had lived all his life in a
community of human rabbits, had never read of brave deeds, had never
heard speak of them, had never heard any one praise them nor express
envy of the heroes that had done them, he would have had no more idea
of bravery than Adam had of modesty, and it could never by any
possibility have occurred to him to _resolve_ to become brave. He
_could not originate the idea_—it had to come to him from the
_outside_. And so, when he heard bravery extolled and cowardice
derided, it woke him up. He was ashamed. Perhaps his sweetheart turned
up her nose and said, “I am told that you are a coward!” It was not
_he_ that turned over the new leaf—she did it for him. _He_ must not
strut around in the merit of it —it is not his.
Y.M. But, anyway, he reared the plant after she watered the seed.
O.M. No. _Outside influences_ reared it. At the command—and
trembling—he marched out into the field—with other soldiers and in the
daytime, not alone and in the dark. He had the _influence of example_,
he drew courage from his comrades’ courage; he was afraid, and wanted
to run, but he did not dare; he was _afraid_ to run, with all those
soldiers looking on. He was progressing, you see—the moral fear of
shame had risen superior to the physical fear of harm. By the end of
the campaign experience will have taught him that not _all_ who go into
battle get hurt—an outside influence which will be helpful to him; and
he will also have learned how sweet it is to be praised for courage and
be huzza’d at with tear-choked voices as the war-worn regiment marches
past the worshiping multitude with flags flying and the drums beating.
After that he will be as securely brave as any veteran in the army—and
there will not be a shade nor suggestion of _personal merit_ in it
anywhere; it will all have come from the _outside_. The Victoria Cross
breeds more heroes than—
Y.M. Hang it, where is the sense in his becoming brave if he is to get
no credit for it?
O.M. Your question will answer itself presently. It involves an
important detail of man’s make which we have not yet touched upon.
Y.M. What detail is that?
O.M. The impulse which moves a person to do things—the only impulse
that ever moves a person to do a thing.
Y.M. The _only_ one! Is there but one?
O.M. That is all. There is only one.
Y.M. Well, certainly that is a strange enough doctrine. What is the
sole impulse that ever moves a person to do a thing?
O.M. The impulse to _content his own spirit_—the _necessity_ of
contenting his own spirit and _winning its approval_.
Y.M. Oh, come, that won’t do!
O.M. Why won’t it?
Y.M. Because it puts him in the attitude of always looking out for his
own comfort and advantage; whereas an unselfish man often does a thing
solely for another person’s good when it is a positive disadvantage to
himself.
O.M. It is a mistake. The act must do _him_ good, _first_; otherwise he
will not do it. He may _think_ he is doing it solely for the other
person’s sake, but it is not so; he is contenting his own spirit
first—the other’s person’s benefit has to always take _second_ place.
Y.M. What a fantastic idea! What becomes of self—sacrifice? Please
answer me that.
O.M. What is self-sacrifice?
Y.M. The doing good to another person where no shadow nor suggestion of
benefit to one’s self can result from it.