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.”
Ruth granted she cared too much for good manners, since they did not
always mean what they professed to mean. To Florence they seemed
unimportant, in others, as an index of character.
Florence said: “I act differently with each person, because I believe a
different way will please each person.”
“Yes,” I answered, “we all do it unconsciously; and that is why we _are_
as many people as we _know_.”
She went on: “When I am with people who like to be serious, I talk
seriously; and when I am with people who like to fool, why, then I am
jolly and silly.”
“But how about your own taste and personality?” I asked. “Does that
count?”
“When I am with some very proper people,” said Florence, “I love to
shock them.”
“Yes,” I answered, “it is a temptation. But, please, Florence, make the
people do what you choose sometimes. You remember that you want to be
like a picture, and not only like a looking-glass.”
“I like to be the controlling person,” said Virginia, “and make people
do what I choose.”
Ruth said: “I don’t believe people are ever their real self with me, and
it is very annoying. They always try to seem better.”
“That is,” said Marian, “because they know you have such high ideals.”
“Yes,” Ruth went on, “I suppose _you_ tell them. And then they show me
only their good side.”
“Ruth,” I answered, “if that be true, it need not trouble you. If you
can really make people always show you their good side, you should be
glad to have the power. For people’s good side is a pleasanter side to
see; and it is excellent practice for them to show it. I want you each
to be a power and a purpose in life.”
Afterward I had a little talk with Florence. I said: “I am afraid I was
speaking for your benefit. Do you mind?”
“No,” she answered, “but I am not going to be that sort of society
girl.”
I walked homeward with Virginia and Henry. Virginia told me that the
club made her think, that things we said came back to her weeks and
weeks afterward, and gave new meanings to life.
Next week we are going to have the last meeting. Henry asked me whether
we were going to speak of “Aloofness.”
“Yes,” I answered, “and it will include all we have said until now.”
SEVENTEENTH MEETING
I read Henry’s paper:
“We should not be partisan. Do not fight against any one as an enemy,
but as a friend who tries to help another, by thwarting his wrong
purpose.
“Again we can go to Lincoln for an example. When he was president,
Lincoln sent to his great political enemy, Douglas, and asked for his
aid in the approaching struggle. Again, when the war was almost over,
and those about him said that the Southern leaders would have to be
severely dealt with, he told them that though he could not avoid the
hated war, now that their end had been gained, he wanted peace, and bore
no malice toward his Southern countrymen, whom he would deal with as
leniently as possible.”
Then I read Marian’s paper:
“At our last meeting of the Seekers we took up the application of the
two next-to-the-last principles of Art to life. The first, ‘do not be
partisan,’ we understood easily. But how to stand for a cause without
being partisan, is more difficult to understand. By this we mean being
for a cause but not against another, and being broad-minded enough to
understand the other side. In doing this all personal attacks are, of
course, eliminated. The next principle, that art gives the impression of
truth, when applied to life means being, first, truth-telling. However,
if by telling the truth we unnecessarily wound a person, we had better
say nothing. To tell the truth for the purpose of hurting some one is
almost as bad as telling a lie.”
I said I thought it was almost worse. I asked why had Henry and Marian
both left out an important part of our last meeting, the part on our
larger social relations? Had we not made it impressive enough? For a
moment they all were puzzled. Was it at the last meeting we had spoken
of that? When I reminded them of what had been said, they remembered.
But Henry added: “I did not think we said it at the last meeting. It
seemed longer ago. Perhaps because that is something we have spoken of
at all the meetings, right along.”
I said I thought all but Alfred and Ruth were not greatly interested in
larger social questions. Their family and school life were more
absorbing. I said: “I know Alfred is interested in social and political
problems, because he has told me so. You see, even though he won’t talk
to you, he does sometimes talk to me.”
Alfred blushed. He answered: “I care more about those outside relations
than anything else.”
Marian said: “I am interested, too. But last time, just in the midst, we
got off to the subject of ‘knocking’ people. And so I don’t think we
quite finished.”
“Perhaps,” I asked, “we had better go over it again to-day? And yet I
think not. You do seem to understand. I don’t think you can form your
social and political opinions now, and I don’t care to talk much of
these things. You see, the boys still have five years before they need
to vote. And for the girls, I imagine it may be even longer.”
“I don’t know,” said Ruth, “I don’t think it will be much longer.”
“But,” I went on, “we spoke of other things, too. Didn’t we speak a
great deal of woman’s life?”
“You mean choosing professions, and society, and so on?” asked Marian.
“Yes.”
“It is strange, too,” said she, “that I forgot to write about it. For it
impressed me very much, and I was talking of it only the other day, when
some girls were at the house.”
“Now,” I said, “we will speak of that strange thing, aloofness, the
spectator’s point of view, that a while ago you could not understand.
And I think to-day you will understand at once, for it is the sum and
completeness of all we have said. Do you think you know now what I mean
by aloofness? What do you think, Henry?”
“I think it means,” he said, “understanding with sympathy all the people
about you, and the outsiders.”
“Yes,” I said; “but it means more than that.”
Alfred looked as if he knew.
“Well, Alfred?”
“Doesn’t it mean,” he asked, “being able to criticize and judge
yourself?”
“Yes,” I said. “That is nearer; it means both, and more than both. It
means being not only in yourself, but above and around, judging all
things as if you were all the people, from the point of view of the
whole world. You know what we mean when we say God. We mean that whole,
the whole Self. It means seeing life from God’s point of view. It is as
if we were spectator and also actor; doing our own little part in our
own little lives, and yet seeing the whole, and caring most for that
whole, and acting our part in relation to it, to please the vast
spectator. Have you not yourselves had that experience? Have you not,
even in exciting moments, suddenly felt as if you were outside yourself,
looking on at yourself, and judging?”
“Yes,” said Marian, “I often do. Sometimes I laugh at myself. I see how
foolish I am, but I go right on. For the actor and the spectator do not
always agree.”
I said: “All goodness and power in life spring from making the actor and
spectator agree, making the larger self include and manage the smaller
self, and move it as a player moves a pawn. For, remember, it is not two
separate selves, but one self, a vast sense of all life, inclusive of
this smaller self which we control. Do you not realize that all heroism,
all great and noble action is done so, in the spirit of the whole, for
the vast spectator within us? When a man dies for a cause, he is that
cause, he is far more than his own small self, and he gladly dies for
that which includes and fulfils him. When a man gives up his life to
save another man, he sees the whole thing as from above. He and the
other man are one, are part of the same life, and he spends himself for
himself.
“Fear,” I said, “cowardice, loss of self-control in crises, always comes
when the actor forgets the spectator, when the spectator loses control.
“If ever you have been in any exciting crisis, and kept cool and above
fear, then you will know what I mean; how you think of the whole, of all
the people, and seem to be and control the whole.”
Ruth said she knew one never thought especially of one’s self at such a
time. Experiences, however, were scarce. Virginia spoke of the time she
was with me in a burning trolley car, and how she had been interested
rather than excited. But then she was a very, very little girl. Ruth
said she didn’t remember how she felt when she was almost run down by an
automobile.
Marian asked: “One is not always conscious of the spectator?”
“No,” I answered, “one is conscious of him only at rare moments. For it
is the actor who acts and lives, and the spectator controls him. The
spectator is oftenest silent. He watches. And he must choose.”
“But is the spectator always sure?” asked Marian. “Sometimes you cannot
tell what seems to you best, until you talk it over with others.”
“The spectator,” I said, “judges and chooses according to all he can
know. Surely, he chooses in relation with others. He can use all
experience; he goes even beyond his sorrow and pain. Do you understand?
He goes beyond sorrow and pain, and uses them. Do you remember I spoke
to you once of all things being a memory, of the body itself being a
memory? The basis of all sympathy is experience and memory. So the
spectator grows and uses everything. He is, as it were, in partnership
with the whole, with God. And he rises on his own knowledge. The higher
he goes, the farther can he see. Do you understand that aloofness, the
judging from the standpoint of the whole, of the whole self, is the
basis of morality? It is the part judging and living for the whole.
Those who know this make the laws for all, according to their knowledge;
and the others, who are only actors, whose spectator is not wide awake,
have to obey.”
At first they protested. Was this true? They did not understand. Henry
asked did I mean making laws to control anarchists? I explained how some
had to be forced to conform, even for their own good, and how the others
were free, because the law that was good for all, they knew to be best
for themselves.
I said: “My own limited personal life is my weapon and means, the only
weapon and means I have to come to completeness. I will always remember
that it is a means, something to use; but it is my only means, and for
that reason it is important and precious to me above all else.”
“You mean,” said Virginia, “that you don’t want to dream away your life,
like the ascetics of the middle ages, who dreamed of the whole, but
didn’t do their part?”
“Yes,” I said, “exactly. It is as if we were all watching a vast
chessboard, all together interested in the game, but each able to
control only one pawn, and yet anxious to play in such a way as to win
the game along with the others, each for the sake of the whole. And that
pawn is our own life; the only power we have.”
“Aren’t we ourselves the pawns?” asked Marian.
“No,” said Henry; “then we couldn’t manage them.”
“We are both pawn and player,” I said; “for if we were only the pawn, in
the crowd of little players, we could not see ahead, and would go
blindly forward without aim. One must be above the board to see it.”
And now I asked: “Shall we look once more over all we have said in these
few months?”
They answered that it seemed to them this last meeting had been a
review.
“Yes,” I answered, “aloofness, which a while ago you could not
understand, is now wholly clear to you; and more than that, it includes
all we have said.”
“It doesn’t include it all,” said Henry, “but it finishes and rounds it
out.”
“And our little club is finished,” I asked, “artistically finished?”
“Yes,” they said.
“I have noticed that sometimes some of you call it ‘class.’ Is it a
class? Is it not rather a club; have we not all gone forward together?”
Ruth answered: “It is each or both. Sometimes we speak of it as class,
or club, or lesson.”
“Surely it is a lesson,” said Henry, “because we have learned something
from it. Whatever you learn from is a lesson.”
Well, after all, I suppose I have given them my thought; and that is
what I must have meant to do.
I asked them what practical result the ideas had had upon their lives.
“Do you mean in action?” asked Marian. “I never stop to think of it when
I act, but I find that I refer my thoughts again and again to this
standard, when I don’t mean to, or expect to.”
“It is a habit of thought,” I answered, “and our habits of thought
unconsciously make our actions.”
“Yes,” said Virginia, “things that happen are always bringing to mind
the things we speak of here.”
“But we have not yet reached an absolute, stiff conclusion, have we?”
insisted Marian.
“No,” I answered; “we are going to be seekers all our lives—are we
not?—comrades in the search for light?”
“Surely,” they said.
“And,” I went on, “I want something more of you. I have noticed that you
all are very shy about talking of the club to outsiders. But it seems to
me that it is worth while telling your thought and your truth, that you
must not only seek, but share what you find.”
“You mean,” said Virginia, “that we should try to get converts, like the
Catholics?”
“Yes,” I answered, “converts to seeking.”
“It is very hard,” Ruth said, “to talk to outsiders of these things. I
can tell my mother. She understands. But we have made a language of our
own at the club, and other people don’t understand it. When I begin to
tell them, they ask: ‘What sort of language are you using?’”
“That is a pity,” I answered, “and yet we could hardly help it. Perhaps
we should have tried to use other words.”
“No,” said Ruth, “I think it is a very beautiful language, and we must
use it. But it makes it hard to tell others.”
“People don’t want to understand,” said Henry. “When you begin to tell
them what it is about, they make up their minds they won’t understand
such things. They set out with that idea.”
Marian said: “I often speak of certain things we discussed, just as the
other day I was speaking of women’s professions and social life. But it
is impossible to tell the whole idea. One would have to begin at the
beginning.”
“Yes,” I answered, “it would be a whole course. So you have to content
yourself with telling the unessential parts. But I hope that you will
absorb this idea into your life and your actions, and then find new
words in which to tell the same truth almost unconsciously, words that
will be made clear to all through your own experience.
“We see clearly how each one of us will draw strength and judgment from
his limitless whole self. And the knowledge of our greatest desire will
make us teach our lesser desires to follow it, will make us shape and
use the whole of our life for the thing we want and love.
“And now I wish to ask you each a question. What particular thing or
power seems most dear and necessary to you in your own life, in order to
fulfil your aim. Alfred, tell me. Do you know? Or do you want time to
think of it?”
“What I want most,” said Alfred, “is the power to calculate and judge
how things are going to turn out. To plan well.”
“What I want most,” said Marian, “is to be the sort of girl I wish to
be. To be like my idea of myself.”
“What I want most,” said Virginia, “is to have fun, to be happy.”
“What does that mean?” asked Henry. “Happiness, for each one of us, is
having what we want most.”
“Well,” said Virginia, “I like life to be pleasant for me and for all
the people about me.”
“What I want most,” said Florence, “is to be loved.”
“Only to be loved, or to love, too?”
“To be loved and to love.”
Ruth said: “That is what I want most, too.”
Henry said: “I agree with them.”
They all seemed to wish they had said it. Virginia added: “If you are
happy, you are loved.”
“Lately,” said I, “this last week, a leader of clubs told me he had
asked this same question of a club of boys. I wanted to see what you
would answer.”
“What did they answer?”
“They, all but one, answered ‘Money.’ The one said he wished to make
beautiful things.”
“That is a fine answer,” Virginia said. “I’m sure I would like him.”
“I know,” said Henry, “a great many boys feel that way. I happen to know
of that club. One of those boys said to me lately, what he wanted most
was to have lots of money, so he could enjoy himself. But I think after
he had the money, he would not find the enjoyment satisfying.”
“Of course,” I answered, “money is necessary to life; that is, the means
of life are necessary to life.”
“But one can earn those,” said they.
Marian said: “If I were as strong, capable and good as I would like, and
just the sort of person I mean to be, it would be easy to earn money.”
Ruth said: “If one is loved and loves many people, one is sure to find
some way of getting enough money to live. I don’t mean that people will
thrust it on you, but you are sure to find the way to get whatever you
need.”
I said: “Money is only, as it were, a certificate of power; for so much
work, you are given the means to go on working and living. But the great
problem is to make the work itself worth more to us than the payment.
And I am afraid with most people it is not so. Money is a means for
work, for life, for fulfilment. If things were properly adjusted, and
society perfect, each man would work for his livelihood at the work
which he loved most to do.”
Virginia said: “I would rather be a pauper than not be an artist.”
I answered: “I hope each one of you will find the means to do the work
you love, and make it your livelihood. For that is the only way to
justify both work and wage.”
Then I said: “Before we part and plan to meet again, I am going to tell
you something very exciting. I am almost afraid to say it.”
“What is it? Tell us, quick.”
“Do you remember, I told you I was keeping minutes of the club?”
“Yes, that is why you wanted our papers.”
“Well, they are not ordinary minutes. They are an exact account of all
we have done and said.” And then I told them of this book.
They were delighted. “We are all going to be put into a book,” they
said.
“Yes,” I answered, “it will be a book, and you are all to be in it. But
who knows whether any one else will care? Perhaps it will never be
published.”
“Even if it isn’t published,” said Henry, “it will be a book.”
“What will it be called?” they asked.
“‘The Seekers,’ of course.”
“You ought to call it ‘The Pathfinder,’” said Henry. “That would sound
more romantic and interesting, and attract people.”
Would I dedicate it to them? they asked.
“No, certainly not,” I said; “you are all helping me write it. We will
dedicate it to all Seekers.”
What names would I use? they asked.
I would use their right first names, I said. Weren’t they willing?
Yes, yes, they were willing.
“For,” I said, “one could scarcely make up prettier names: I like them
all, Marian, Ruth, Florence, Virginia, Henry and Alfred.”
“Yes,” answered Marian, “we like our own names.”
“And you have really helped me to write it,” I said, “for I have all
your papers. That’s why I wanted them, to prove that I was not inventing
the whole thing.”
“Are you putting them in just as we wrote them?” asked Marian.
“Yes, exactly.”
“Oh, please,” she begged, “correct my spelling and my bad construction.”
“I will correct your spelling and your punctuation, but nothing else.”
“Oh, please,” she said, “change the places where I repeated myself. I
wrote them so hastily.”
“I suppose,” I said, “that what was good enough for me will be good
enough for any one. Don’t you think so? I always wanted to write a book
like this, and as I didn’t have brains enough to invent it alone, I made
you help me. It is a real live book. We have lived it together.”
Now they asked me crowds of questions. Had I put in all the nonsense?
Yes, every bit. “Then we will laugh at ourselves,” said Marian. Had I
put in every time Virginia mentioned animals? Yes, almost every time. It
must be very interesting, they said. “Did you write down every time we
laughed?” No, I took that for granted. And did I write down when
Florence said brother Arthur told her things? Yes. And would I leave
that in? Certainly. And would I let them see it? Yes, as soon as
possible.
APPENDIX
The notes used by the leader at each meeting, and slightly remodeled
afterward, as experience showed them to be faulty, are here presented,
in the hope that they may be of use in some other club. Certain clubs
have been formed by some of the original Seekers, in which the text of
the book itself is being read aloud and discussed. But were an older
person leading the club—and that is always to be desired—he might find
it far more stimulating and fruitful to conduct the meetings by
directing the conversation along the line of these notes. No doubt if he
made this use of my experience, he would, by adding his own, give new
value to the outcome.
_NOTES_
FIRST MEETING
_Why Are Our Religions Unsatisfying, and What Shall We Do?_
I. CONDITIONS TO-DAY:
_a._ Religions destroy religion. If you are wrong, I might be
wrong.
_b._ Men cling to traditional, half-conscious belief, or build
up an ethic or agnostic faith, because man must live by faith.
II. HISTORIC REASONS FOR PRESENT CONDITIONS:
_a._ Initiated and popular religion in history:
1. India; castes and the Brahmans.
2. Egypt; secret priesthood, annexed beliefs, and
interpretations of myths.
3. Greece; Rome; early Catholicism; the priests.
_b._ Analysis of initiated and popular belief:
1. Myths of Orpheus; of Moses and the Burning Bush; of
the divine parentage of Jesus.
2. The initiated is the religion of poetry and prophecy,
of symbols. These, taken literally by the people, become
a religion of idols and prose. One is a moving spirit,
the other a graven image. Words can be idols.
_c._ The modern trend:
1. Democratic spirit (since Reformation) destroys
initiated religion, keeps popular religion.
2. Science destroys popular myths.
III. WHAT MUST WE DO TO-DAY?
_a._ Scientific knowledge destroys popular myths, but does not
replace religion:
1. Every scientist has a philosophy or faith.
2. Science fosters new popular delusions, built on its
literal facts, such as atheism and scientific
superstitions of half-knowledge.
_b._ There is absolute religious knowledge:
1. Its record in history: Moses, Jesus, etc.
2. Its testimony in our own selves:
(What do we _know_?)
_c._ In a democracy every one must attain this knowledge; each
must be initiated; every man shall be a prophet.
IV. WHAT DOES EACH ONE BELIEVE CONCERNING GOD?
(Question for next week.)
SECOND MEETING
_God, and the Meaning of Progress_
I. THE IDEA OF GOD A PERSONAL CONVICTION:
_a._ A realization to be achieved, but, after that, silence on
the subject. Sacredness of the word.
_b._ Members’ individual ideas of God.
_c._ My idea stated: