Part 55

“Do you suppose,” asked Marian, “that an Englishman could be patriotic for the United States?”

“Yes,” I said, “and I am glad you asked that, for it gives me a chance to tell you what forms patriotism is beginning to take. An Englishman, or American, may be patriotic for Anglo-Saxonism all the world over; for the English language and literature everywhere; he may dream of it as the world-language; and then, surely, he is patriotic for these States, as well as for England. I am not going to preach patriotism to you. I know you are all patriotic for this country, for Americanism, for the idea of democracy which America upholds. Surely the schools, from first to last, dwell so much upon it that an American child can hardly help being patriotic.”

I was surprised at the burst of answers.

Marian said, on the contrary, the school with its continual, boring 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.”