Part 56

“I would like,” said Florence, “to dance as well as my dancing teacher.”

I expressed grave doubts as to the permanence of this ambition.

“But,” I said, “what I mean, Marian, is that you want to be a certain kind of person, that you must have an idea of yourself which, even unconsciously, you try to attain; and it is this ideal, this vision of the self you wish to be, and mean to be, that should color and shape your life, as an artist’s idea of his central figure and meaning controls his whole execution.”

“I’m sure I don’t think of it all the time,” she said; “I like just to live along, and dream, and be what I happen to be.”

“Now, Marian,” I answered, “you are saying what you think is true. But I will show you that it is not. You live for your desired self, even unconsciously. Do you not remember doing or leaving undone certain little things which your ideal of yourself wanted otherwise, and then reproaching yourself for days for this small lapse into selfishness or unkindness?”

They had all had this annoying experience, as well as I myself. Marian told how, when she was quite a small girl, something had happened that she had never forgotten. A little beggar-girl, with only rubbers over her stockings, came to the door and asked Marian for old clothes. Marian had been reading stories, and was longing to act them. But her mother was out, and she had not the courage to do anything; so she turned the child away with a mumbled excuse about her mother’s not being at home. And she had never forgiven herself.

Marian saw that what I meant by a definite aim in life was, after all, indefinite enough to suit her.

Virginia said: “When I want to do some kind or good thing which it is hard to do, because I lack courage, I make up my mind that I will do it anyway, without thinking; I walk right in, and then the rest is always easy and pleasant.”

“In other words,” I answered, “you manage yourself. I do believe it is good to know what you want to be, and how you want to be it, and then to avoid strenuously everything that interferes.”

We spoke of wasted and worthless conversation with “outsiders,” and I warned them all against boring people, or allowing themselves to be bored. It is better not to talk at all. Virginia said she always made people amuse her, which seemed to us a good way. I suggested getting people to tell of themselves, since all human nature is interesting. But Ruth objected that people who did it were the worst bores, and only conceited people would do it.

“At any rate,” I said, “please don’t get into the habit of making flat conversation, for then you yourselves will degenerate into bores.” And we decided that merriment would cover many ills.

We spoke of the worth of knowledge. The boys and girls have to study subjects unprofitable to them, for the sake of passing certain examinations. This, of course, is a definite sacrifice for a definite reason. But it is necessary, in all studying, to choose some subjects and to sacrifice others. I said I would very much like to know everything.

“Yes,” Henry answered, “I always wish I might know everything there is to know.”

“But, of course, we can’t,” I said, “and so we have to choose first that knowledge which we need, which will make our life as we wish it to be.”

Alfred told us how he had chosen to study French and German instead of Latin, because they seemed more necessary to him, though he would like to know them all.

“And,” I said, “the thing you love you shall seek with your might. You must definitely want to be a certain sort of a person in life, else you may be no sort of person. Have you noticed how some people, who were quite charming in youth, ‘peter out’ when they grow older, how they lose all interest in things, and become dull? To me that seems unnecessary. Age may be just as full, interesting and active as youth, to those whose life has a definite aim and meaning.”

Henry said: “Yes, I wish to live long. I have heard people say they would not like to be old, and to be a burden to others.”

“But you,” I answered, “mean to live long and not be a burden to others.”

“Yes,” he said.

“You must concentrate,” I went on; “you must get out of life only what you need and want.”

Florence said she couldn’t concentrate in her studies, except when she loved them. Naturally, I answered, it was strong love that made us concentrate.

Virginia said: “I used to study, only instead of studying I looked out of the window.”

“But now, at your art,” I answered, “you work with concentration, because you love it.”

Henry remarked that perhaps, when she was looking out of the window, she studied the landscapes.

At this point Marian, hearing voices in the next room, whispered to Ruth whether she knew who was there.

“Strange,” I said. “Until you spoke of it, I did not notice any voices. Do you love this club? Well, I do, too; and when I am here, no matter what happened before, or will happen afterward, or may be happening now, I think of nothing but what we are doing, I forget everything else. Do you remember the difference between the painting and the photograph? The photographic plate takes every detail, unimportant and meaningless; the picture contains only that which makes it complete and beautiful. Let your life be a picture, not a photograph. Do not let your life be a sensitive plate that cannot defend itself against any impression. Let it be an artist’s work, chosen, complete, beautiful. Leave out what does not concern you.

“Now, what is it,” I asked, “which all of us do love best, and which includes all our lesser loves?”

Henry answered: “You mean complete sympathy and understanding.”