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.
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: