Part 63

“And there may be even a kind of truth-telling which is essentially untrue; I mean truth told maliciously, truth told for the purpose of hurting. That makes an untrue relation between people, even though it be true in fact; just as the ugly picture, truly representing an ugly thing in an ugly way, does not seem true.”

Virginia said: “As if one woman said to another woman: ‘I saw your husband drunk last night,’ and the other woman knew it already. It would be quite true, but unnecessary.”

“Exactly.”

I spoke of the importance of praise and encouragement to others, and of kind, true criticism. At first they all protested that they did not like over-much praise. No, I said, not over-much, nor praise alone; I hated to be “damned with faint praise,” but I loved praise and blame combined in such measure, that I felt the thing done was worth doing, and yet saw where it was wrong, and how it might be righted. I said all teachers ought to praise and blame in this fashion—never forgetting the praise.

“They don’t have time for it in school,” said Ruth.

“Ruth,” I answered her, “just for a teacher of small children, such encouraging critical power is most necessary.”

“Yes,” she said, “I know. I mean to have it.”

I went on: “When I criticize a child’s drawing, for instance, and find six wrong lines in it, and one right line, I will insist on the worth of that right line, and show how the other six can and ought to be made equally good. One can always point to the wrong, without hurting, when one insists on the right.”

And now we passed to a difficult and engrossing subject: what things are worth while in personal social life. At this period of life it concerns the girls chiefly; but it could not be skipped for that reason. And the boys were interested listeners.

I spoke again of “prettiness” in art. Did they remember? Virginia said, those painted merely prettily who tried to please the crowd for the sake of money or applause. Yes, I answered, they tried to please those who could not understand them or truly judge them. And so there is a prettiness of manner and life which appeals to the stranger and acquaintance, but does not win the friend; the merely social prettiness, that has no true worth.

What did I mean? asked Florence.

“I mean,” I said, “a mixing of values—giving up what is worth more, for what is worth less, and, usually, because we don’t realize what we are doing. For instance, ever so many will go to much greater trouble to please acquaintances than friends, and even ask their friends to ‘let them off’ for the sake of their acquaintances.”

“That is,” said Florence, “because we know our friends will forgive us.”

“Yes,” I answered, “and it is a poor reason, for finally we will not have any to forgive us.”

“I know a girl,” said Marian, “who has ever so many acquaintances, and no friends.”

“When I think of society,” Virginia said, “in the large sense of all people, the only class I don’t think of as belonging to society, are just the society girls.”

“That,” I answered, “is foolish; for they do belong to it, and can be a very important part of it, if they wish.”

Marian looked puzzled. “It is all right,” she asked, “isn’t it, for girls to go into society?”

“Surely,” I answered; “not only all right, but very good, if they do it in the best way. But I think it a terrible waste for girls to do nothing but go into society, to live only for that, and rest only for that, and care only for the superficial show of it, for luxury and money-spending.”

We spoke of luncheons and parties, and all sorts of festivities where decoration and show count, and tried to put decoration in its subordinate place. “People are apt,” I said, “to lose the real thing in the glamor, to care to outdo each other only in expensiveness and show, instead of remembering that pleasant surroundings are merely surroundings. Like the woman who would spend all her time on her household, and waste herself to make it beautiful, instead of remembering that its beauty could count only as a setting for herself and her greater work. It’s a pity to waste good art on poor subjects.”

“One must be all-sided,” said Marian, “you told us so. I know a girl who did college and society and housekeeping all at once.”

“And all well?” I asked.

“I think so,” she answered, “though I’m not so sure about the college part.”

“That is just the danger,” I said, “and a danger I wish you all to avoid. I don’t want one of you, when you leave school, to degenerate into a frivolous, silly society girl. You won’t, will you?”

They all said they wouldn’t. Virginia and Ruth were positive they couldn’t.

“Because,” I went on, “many girls do it who seemed serious and intelligent while at school. I will tell you why they do. They are apt to think school in itself so intellectual, that they particularly avoid, at other times, thinking seriously or reading good books or having sensible conversations. And, indeed, school does keep them thinking, but not of their own accord. So, when they are graduated, they stop all thinking, go into society, and wait to get married.”

“And some women,” said Marian, “get so uninteresting after they marry!”

“Yes,” I answered, “it is true, and it is a pity. Naturally, every girl expects to marry, and has the right to expect it. But if she folds her hands and waits for it, or goes out and dances and waits for it, she will hardly be fit when the time comes.”