Part 49

That, they said, included all the others.

Yes, I answered, it was the chief. Second, Courage. Courage, they said, to do as we believed. Third, Trustworthiness. They all agreed. Fourth, love of knowledge. Fifth, love of beauty. Sixth, insight. Seventh, a sense of humor!

During this time Virginia and Marian were fitting each virtue to that girl, and found her lacking only in the latter ones, but no more lovable or interesting than before.

“Ruth,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure they are not speaking of you or me?”

“I don’t know,” she answered; “perhaps.”

They protested.

“Do you know the girl, Ruth?” I asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“Well,” I said, “please bring her to the next meeting. She interests me.”

Ruth promised, despite the protestations and explanations of Marian and Virginia. “You would know, then, of whom we had been talking,” they said.

“Very well,” I answered, “she shall stay away on one condition.”

“What is that?”

“That you don’t mention her again. I always feel,” I went on, “that when any one is badly spoken of, I am being criticized behind my back. Just as when a race, such as the negroes, for instance, is unjustly spoken of, I feel like fighting for my rights; for I take it as a mere matter of chance that I didn’t happen to be one of them.

“Florence,” I continued, “is quite right in wanting to be loved. It is the best thing in the world.”

“Except loving,” said Virginia.

“Of course,” I answered; “but to want to be loved by those we love for what we really are, and truly to wish to be what they can truly love, that is the whole of goodness, I believe. The only difference between vanity and true worth is that the vain person wishes to appear to be what is lovable—which is very unsafe—and the truly good person wishes to be it.”

“You mean,” said Henry, “that vanity is company manners?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know,” Florence said. “I have liked people who used ‘company manners’ for some company, and not for others.”

“I have known people,” said Marian, “who were always agreeable and sweet, and appeared to want every one to like them, and yet were not a bit lovable.”

“Naturally,” I said, “the person who wishes to be loved for what he is, is also willing to be hated for it, if he must, by those who think otherwise.” I said there was a man of whom we had heard much during the last days (because of his centenary) who seemed to be exactly what we meant by good. This was Abraham Lincoln. We spent some time speaking of him, the man who, it seems to me, might have inspired a new American religion.

“We always sympathize most with those,” said Henry, “who sympathize with us.”

“We love them most,” I said, “but the man of large heart will often sympathize with people who understand him no better than they understand the sunshine: with the bad man, for instance.”

“That is true.”

“In the drama of life,” I said, “he who loves beauty and his whole self will live so as to make that whole beautiful, and for this joy and beauty will gladly give up his petty satisfactions. For remember that the good life is the beautiful life, and the influential life. Indeed, every life in this drama has immense influence.”

“For good or bad,” said Henry.