JUSTICE
Before advancing further it may be well to survey the tangled ground
already traversed; for in mutuality, the third great section of
Altruism, I have not been able to employ the simple treatment which
Manners and Giving received. The principle throughout is precise and
uniform. Within a specified field the interests of two or more persons
are to be accounted identical, so that a double gain becomes possible,
altruism transforming itself into egoism and egoism into altruism. This
is the common principle which shapes every form of mutuality. But the
extent of the fields specified differs so widely as to give rise to
forms of very unlike moral value, which deserve separate examination.
In the field of partnership, for example, it is understood that the
union will not continue indefinitely and that it has been brought
about for attaining some external end. Partnership, bargaining,
voluntary association would not come into existence were it not for
the prospect of mutual gain. If one party alone gains, we see that
some unfairness has occurred. Yet because in these unions mutuality
is restricted to a small group and to the accomplishment of external
purposes, they often become engines for a selfishness more intense than
their separate members would approve. A popular proverb exaggerates but
little in saying that corporations have no souls.
But such perilous restrictions are unnecessary. There can be mutuality
without them. Instead of referring to an external end, unions can be
formed for an internal purpose. The very lives and aspirations of two
persons may be joined. That is unnecessary in business relations. I
may dislike my partner personally, yet judge it wise to identify my
commercial interests with his. When I make a purchase at a shop I do
not inquire about the character of the dealer. With that I have no
concern. His life is his, mine mine. Our mutual relation touches only
the value of the article purchased. And something similar is true of
our voluntary associations. I join my political club in the hope of
furthering public interests; but, to tell the truth, I am often ashamed
of my associates there. We have a common aim, but personally I will
keep myself as clear from my fellow workers as possible. Under none of
the conditions which I have called partnership do lives merge. To these
unions for definable ends a termination is sometimes set, sometimes
indefinitely anticipated.
Now, in the case of love, these restrictions are done away. Accordingly
the whole principle of mutuality comes out there with a lucidity,
power, and moving appeal which it cannot possibly have in the briefly
planned arrangements of trade. For though love often passes away, no
such cessation is contemplated. The eternal vows of lovers have always
been a subject of jest. No doubt limited marriages have been proposed.
But I suspect if they ever come about, what we mean by love will be
omitted. It would strike most of us as absurd for me to ask Mary to
join me in identifying our lives for a single year, sharing during that
time our home, our aims, our inmost thoughts, but always intending
at the end of that time to go our separate ways, unable to say “we.”
External relations can be formed, dropped, and resumed, the persons
involved remaining unaffected. That is not true of interior relations.
These fashion a new personality to which old forms of morals, even
old forms of language, no longer apply. Before advancing to explain
as my final topic the special modifications of mutuality which fit it
for a world principle, let me sum up the whole doctrine of love in
some majestic lines attributed to Shakespeare. In 1601 a curious book
appeared called _Chester’s Love’s Martyr_, containing a poem to which
Shakespeare’s name was affixed. This single fact, and the unlikelihood
that any one else had such compulsive power over words, are our only
grounds for thinking Shakespeare wrote the piece. It is entitled “The
Phœnix and the Turtle,” and allegorically describes the funeral of a
pair of married lovers, the man denoted by the turtle, the woman by
the phœnix. I quote only the funeral chant, omitting the picturesque
introduction and the solemn ending:
“Here the anthem doth commence;
Love and constancy is dead,
Phœnix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from thence.
So they loved as love in twain
Had the essence but in one.
Two distincts, division none,
Number there in love was slain.
Hearts remote, yet not asunder,
Distance, and no space was seen
’Twixt the turtle and his queen;
But in them it were a wonder.
So between them love did shine
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phœnix’ sight;
Either was the other’s mine.
Property was thus appalled,
That the self was not the same.
Single nature’s double name
Neither two nor one was called.
Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together.
To themselves, yet either--neither,
Simple were so well compounded
That it cried how true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none,
If what parts can so remain.”
What audacity of word and precision of thought! With what accuracy the
paradoxes of love are stated! “To themselves, yet either--neither.” In
the first stanza the sacred word “mutual” is introduced. Where else in
our language is the conjunct self so completely set forth?
Yet we cannot pause even here. To make love a principle capable of
universal application, it will need to be reconstituted and, while
retaining its mutuality, to be stripped of sundry restrictions.
For love is ever selective. It chooses one and leaves another. It is
exercised only toward definite persons, a little group, preferably two.
The smaller the number the warmer the love. But what we are trying to
discover is how altruism may penetrate the whole of life, organizing
society and the state. That was our ambitious ideal, and love is not
comprehensive enough for it. When we give ourselves up to the single
person or small group fitted to receive our love, will there not be
the same danger as appeared in the discussion of partnership, that the
rest of the world will be shut out? A pair of lovers is notoriously
unpleasing to everybody except themselves. In that little world of
theirs they are so engrossed with the joint service of a common life
that what happens in the needy world beyond is hardly noticed. Love of
this sort is pretty far removed from universal altruism.
Nor is this danger confined to the passion of man for woman. Broader
types of love show the same exclusive absorption. Each member of a
household may be devoted to the rest and find his own gain through
devotion to theirs. Here love attains a peculiarly beautiful mutuality.
But it is still circumscribed. The family becomes sufficient for
itself. Other families do not count. Love has been selective and,
fixing its ardor on certain persons, shuts out the rest. Even the love
of God and his children may narrow itself to interest in those only
who approach him in the same way as ourselves. Our religious sympathy
may not extend beyond our sect. Similar perils beset national love or
patriotism.
No doubt in all these cases the narrower field may provide training for
the broader; but so long as love is selective and waits upon personal
interest it will be hard pressed by conditioning accident. Rightly
does Spenser declare that for the combinations of love the stars’
consent is necessary. Circumstance, juxtaposition, plays a large part
at the beginning of love. The one who would interest me may not happen
to come my way; and I cannot love one whom I do not know. Obtaining
such knowledge, too, even in regard to one very near, is uncertain
business. I see some one who calls out what is best in me and am
confident that joining with her will bring about a glorious life for us
both. But can I be sure? An error in estimating will ruin not me alone
but her too, whom I would honor. Knowledge, an important condition of
love, is hard indeed to obtain. Nor in reckoning the hindrances to love
as a universal principle can we pass by the mysteries of temperament.
Many a person have we known to be lovable whom we could never love.
Peculiarities of inheritance, training, habit, instinctive feeling in
two persons, while not diminishing their worth, may render hopeless
their adaptation to one another.
Selective love, then, hampered by its need of acquaintance, nearness,
and knowledge, can never become a universal principle, binding mankind
together. It shows, however, what we want. Nowhere else does altruistic
fervor attain such depth. But it lacks breadth and is possible only
within narrow bounds. We have been seeking to extend mutuality, the
double gain, the abolition of both egoism and altruism, far beyond
those bounds and reach a method by which mankind as a whole might
engage in the joint service of a common life. Such an ideal would
preserve all characteristics of love except its limitations. But the
removal of these will affect it so deeply as to oblige a new name. I
call it Justice.
Let us examine a case where mutualistic conduct shows traits beyond
the reach of selective love. I go to a shoemaker and ask for a pair of
shoes. He hands me a pair, I pay his price, and carry them home. As I
come to wear them, I find them admirably made. They give me greater
comfort than I have ever had before and wear longer. The leather
appears to have been selected with care, and every nail and stitch to
have received attention. I return to their maker and say: “That was a
remarkable pair of shoes. Did you make them specially for me? Perhaps
you have known me before, have taken a fancy to me, and so have been
willing to put yourself to all this trouble for my convenience. That
is the way with love. It takes burdens on itself to relieve another.”
How astonished the dealer would be at such talk! Would he not answer:
“I had no thought of you, but I made the shoes as well as I could.
It is my business.” “But,” I continue, “if you never know to whom
your shoes will go, why take such pains?” “Because I mean to be true
to my job and not shirk my part in the ongoing of the world. If I do
bad work somebody, I don’t know who, will suffer. I mean to be a good
shoemaker.” Here is professional responsibility. The man deals justly
with his unknown public.
And in such professional responsibility we pass from individual love
to that noble public love which I have ventured to call Justice. Love
remains, but it is now universal love, love freed from selection and
without those restrictions of knowledge, circumstance, and temperament
on which selection is based. No doubt in individual love there is an
intimacy and a wealth of feeling which this case has not. But in it
selfishness is also more pronounced. Knowing John well, I am confident
that in joining my life with his, and with his only, we shall both be
enriched. But the shoemaker carries his blessing to the unknown and
joins himself rather with the public good. He gets his gain by giving
gain to those whom he has never seen. It is true that the transaction
may be partly explained on the grounds already noticed. An exchange
has occurred by which buyer and seller have alike profited. But
something more than calculation of profit has gone into these shoes.
They would have sold readily with half the care. But this man respected
business standards, was something more than a trader, gave not by
equivalent measure, and was more concerned over possible danger to
his customers than over extra labor for himself. That is the essence
of professionalism. While frankly seeking mutual gain and declining
anything one-sided, it abandons all thought of exact equivalence,
keeping in the foreground standards of excellence approved by its group
and looking to public service.
Or is there in the professional man something still deeper than the
characteristics just mentioned, something of which these are but the
outgrowth? The professional man enjoys his work and would rather do
it than not. Many of us, perhaps most, are driven to work by the need
to live. We will do that work faithfully and not disappoint those who
depend on us. But we often think of work as toil, do as little of it as
possible, and find our enjoyment quite outside it. Days of freedom from
that toil are eagerly anticipated. How different is the professional
spirit! It took up its work originally not as a task but as a chance to
gratify a personal interest. To following that interest through all its
windings its heart has been given. Throughout there has been a passion
for perfection, never realized, never abandoned. Each day carries
accomplishment forward and discloses wider ranges into which skill
might extend. Hardship, lack of gain, failure to be recognized are
matters of slender consequence. The work itself is its own rich reward.
Such is professional responsibility at its best. It is responsibility
to no individual, not even so much to the general public as to the
profession chosen. Perhaps we catch the spirit most readily among
artists and scholars, who proverbially show little regard for financial
results. But even where regard for money is patent and necessary, this
professional spirit is often also present.
I am ill and call a physician. He comes to my bedside day by day,
studies my case with elaborate care, gives up large amounts of precious
time to my whims, and never allows his moods to intrude, so that on
my recovery I cannot help saying: “What a sympathetic person you are!
I do not see how you can hold an interest in so many people and feel
their afflictions as if they were your own.” Such a remark would be as
inadequate as if I had said: “You have thoroughly earned your fee.”
Both would be true, and both would point to motives which might rightly
influence him. But into that complex motive would go a third factor
more influential still, if he was a worthy physician. He cares for the
healing art. Of course he is unwilling that I, this individual person,
should suffer. But it is not the “me” element nor the money element
which made him take his trouble. He would have done the same for a
stranger. And this impartial attitude is, on the whole, best. Personal
sympathy is often disturbing. Let him coolly survey me as a case of
typhus fever, and I shall get his best service. Through me he relieves
suffering, obtains for himself a due income, gains larger knowledge of
disease and skill in combating it; in short, meets the responsibilities
of an arduous and interesting profession.
One may wonder why I call this impersonal extension of love Justice.
Because justice seeks to benefit all, but all alike. It knows no
persons, or rather it knows every one as a person and insures each
his share in the common good. All the altruism of love is here, but
without love’s arbitrary selection and limited interest. We do wrong
in thinking of justice as chiefly concerned with penalties. These are
incidental, inflicted on those who refuse to find their gain in the
gain of others. The main work of justice is its equal distribution of
advantage and its insistence that each individual shall be faithful
to what he undertakes for the benefit of all. Justice is therefore
thoroughgoing love, its mutuality guarded, rationalized, stripped of
personal bias, and brought near us through the avenues of our special
work.
Only we must not confine the professions to the four usually reckoned:
teaching, preaching, medicine, and the law. The professional spirit may
vitalize work of every sort. Here is a poor man to whom few enjoyments
are open, who goes out morning after morning to shovel gravel or to
engage in some other labor equally uninteresting. He earns his two or
three dollars a day, takes it home, and hands it to his slatternly
wife. Once he was drawn to her by romantic love. With her he figured a
real union, each continually happy in the sight of the other and each
day bringing to both an inward joy. He did not know her. He had neither
the opportunity nor the ability to study her temperament and learn
whether it was adjustable to his. It proved not to be so. Children
came, cares increased, she neglected herself, her home, her husband.
There was no longer any warmth of affection between them. But still he
goes on working for her unmurmuringly. She is a wife and mother, he
a husband and father. To these relationships he will be faithful. Is
not his a larger love than that of the courtship? I do not see that
we can say so. But it is love of a different sort and a very noble
sort. We called love the joint service of a common life. Though she
no longer joins him, he joins the community in maintaining the family
tie. What keeps him going is his professional responsibility. Being a
good husband is the task assigned him in the general division of labor.
He recognizes its justice, controls his temper, and patiently meets
the hardship involved. I cannot see how there is less professional
responsibility here than in the case of the shoemaker or physician.
Indeed, wherever any one is true to his specific task, puts his heart
into it, works not for money alone nor through interest in a single
individual, but, without calculating any equivalence between what he
gives and receives, studies how he may most fully perform the work
to which he has been called, that man is exhibiting professional
responsibility, honoring love, and exalting justice in a way to deserve
profound reverence.