Part 46

“Many conventions are an example,” said Henry.

“Yes, they may be,” I answered.

“Conventions,” said Virginia, “are neither right nor wrong.”

“No,” I answered, “they are usually a matter of convenience. But some people do make the mistake of calling them right or wrong. Then again you will hear people argue whether or not it is right to tell the truth, under all circumstances.”

“You mean,” Henry said, “that they argue whether or not it is good to tell the truth as truth, not whether the truth will help us toward better relation.”

“Exactly.”

“I think,” said Virginia, “to tell the truth to hurt people’s feelings is wicked.”

Now they were just going to have an argument as to truth-telling, when I reminded them that this was what we did not want to do.

Marian spoke of school laws, and said that these were often without force or reason, and that she saw no great harm in breaking them. When I remembered the folly of laws in many schools, I could not disagree with her. “Of course,” she said, “one gets out of sympathy with that class of mortals called teachers.”

“Hardly,” said I, “if one is honest at all times. And perhaps the meanest, most cowardly lie is the lie of evasion and shirking of punishment in such a case.”

Henry said: “Teachers ought not to ask boys and girls, ‘did you do this or that?’”

“You are right,” I answered; “but, again, no boy or girl of spirit, courage and character would hesitate to answer truthfully.

“Self-sacrifice,” I said, “is a good example of the sort of action that is called good in itself, when it is not at all so, but has only a definite and limited purpose in the scheme. I wish to explain it to you. But first I want to be sure that you understand this idea of good. Is it new to you?”

“Yes,” said Marian, “I never thought of it in that way before.”

“You all have said so little,” I went on, “I am afraid you may not fully understand.”

“There is nothing to say,” answered Marian, “for it grows so naturally out of everything we have done.”

“Our whole thought is like a chain,” said Virginia, “link within link.”

“Alfred,” I said, “you are so silent, you don’t give us a chance to see how bright you are. Now, tell me, what is the good? What do I mean? I want to be sure you understand.”

He hesitated. “The good is completeness, harmony.”

“Yes,” I said, “but I want it more definitely. The good is a sign of that completeness. To the truly good man, as much as he knows of the world, or dreams of it, is his whole self. And he wants that whole self to be right. The good man cannot be wholly good until every one else is so. The world must be perfect to satisfy his desire for good.”

Ruth said: “It is what you told us before, that we cannot be perfect unless the universe is perfect. But it seems to me that a man may be just as good, though others are bad.”

“Yes,” I said, “he can do his best to fill out the gaps and make his relations right, but his goodness will not wholly satisfy him. On the other hand, the self-righteous man, who lives according to precepts and rules, is easily satisfied with himself. Goodness is beauty. The good is always the beautiful action. But goodness, according to laws and precepts which are outworn, which we have left behind us, is no longer beautiful for us.”

Virginia pointed out that in this, then, goodness differed from art, for the objects of art remained beautiful through hundreds of years.

“Six hundred years ago,” she said, “men painted pictures which probably cannot be equalled to-day.”

“But,” I answered, “a man trying to paint like Raphael now, would not paint beautifully.”

“No,” said she; “but if he tried to paint like Franz Hals or Rembrandt he might.”

“Not at all,” I answered.

“Of course,” she admitted, “he would have to paint like himself, to be himself.”