Part 65

“Yes,” I answered, “and it will include all we have said until now.”

SEVENTEENTH MEETING

I read Henry’s paper:

“We should not be partisan. Do not fight against any one as an enemy, but as a friend who tries to help another, by thwarting his wrong purpose.

“Again we can go to Lincoln for an example. When he was president, Lincoln sent to his great political enemy, Douglas, and asked for his aid in the approaching struggle. Again, when the war was almost over, and those about him said that the Southern leaders would have to be severely dealt with, he told them that though he could not avoid the hated war, now that their end had been gained, he wanted peace, and bore no malice toward his Southern countrymen, whom he would deal with as leniently as possible.”

Then I read Marian’s paper:

“At our last meeting of the Seekers we took up the application of the two next-to-the-last principles of Art to life. The first, ‘do not be partisan,’ we understood easily. But how to stand for a cause without being partisan, is more difficult to understand. By this we mean being for a cause but not against another, and being broad-minded enough to understand the other side. In doing this all personal attacks are, of course, eliminated. The next principle, that art gives the impression of truth, when applied to life means being, first, truth-telling. However, if by telling the truth we unnecessarily wound a person, we had better say nothing. To tell the truth for the purpose of hurting some one is almost as bad as telling a lie.”

I said I thought it was almost worse. I asked why had Henry and Marian both left out an important part of our last meeting, the part on our larger social relations? Had we not made it impressive enough? For a moment they all were puzzled. Was it at the last meeting we had spoken of that? When I reminded them of what had been said, they remembered. But Henry added: “I did not think we said it at the last meeting. It seemed longer ago. Perhaps because that is something we have spoken of at all the meetings, right along.”

I said I thought all but Alfred and Ruth were not greatly interested in larger social questions. Their family and school life were more absorbing. I said: “I know Alfred is interested in social and political problems, because he has told me so. You see, even though he won’t talk to you, he does sometimes talk to me.”

Alfred blushed. He answered: “I care more about those outside relations than anything else.”

Marian said: “I am interested, too. But last time, just in the midst, we got off to the subject of ‘knocking’ people. And so I don’t think we quite finished.”

“Perhaps,” I asked, “we had better go over it again to-day? And yet I think not. You do seem to understand. I don’t think you can form your social and political opinions now, and I don’t care to talk much of these things. You see, the boys still have five years before they need to vote. And for the girls, I imagine it may be even longer.”

“I don’t know,” said Ruth, “I don’t think it will be much longer.”

“But,” I went on, “we spoke of other things, too. Didn’t we speak a great deal of woman’s life?”

“You mean choosing professions, and society, and so on?” asked Marian.

“Yes.”

“It is strange, too,” said she, “that I forgot to write about it. For it impressed me very much, and I was talking of it only the other day, when some girls were at the house.”

“Now,” I said, “we will speak of that strange thing, aloofness, the spectator’s point of view, that a while ago you could not understand. And I think to-day you will understand at once, for it is the sum and completeness of all we have said. Do you think you know now what I mean by aloofness? What do you think, Henry?”

“I think it means,” he said, “understanding with sympathy all the people about you, and the outsiders.”

“Yes,” I said; “but it means more than that.”

Alfred looked as if he knew.

“Well, Alfred?”

“Doesn’t it mean,” he asked, “being able to criticize and judge yourself?”

“Yes,” I said. “That is nearer; it means both, and more than both. It means being not only in yourself, but above and around, judging all things as if you were all the people, from the point of view of the whole world. You know what we mean when we say God. We mean that whole, the whole Self. It means seeing life from God’s point of view. It is as if we were spectator and also actor; doing our own little part in our own little lives, and yet seeing the whole, and caring most for that whole, and acting our part in relation to it, to please the vast spectator. Have you not yourselves had that experience? Have you not, even in exciting moments, suddenly felt as if you were outside yourself, looking on at yourself, and judging?”

“Yes,” said Marian, “I often do. Sometimes I laugh at myself. I see how foolish I am, but I go right on. For the actor and the spectator do not always agree.”

I said: “All goodness and power in life spring from making the actor and spectator agree, making the larger self include and manage the smaller self, and move it as a player moves a pawn. For, remember, it is not two separate selves, but one self, a vast sense of all life, inclusive of this smaller self which we control. Do you not realize that all heroism, all great and noble action is done so, in the spirit of the whole, for the vast spectator within us? When a man dies for a cause, he is that cause, he is far more than his own small self, and he gladly dies for that which includes and fulfils him. When a man gives up his life to save another man, he sees the whole thing as from above. He and the other man are one, are part of the same life, and he spends himself for himself.

“Fear,” I said, “cowardice, loss of self-control in crises, always comes when the actor forgets the spectator, when the spectator loses control.

“If ever you have been in any exciting crisis, and kept cool and above fear, then you will know what I mean; how you think of the whole, of all the people, and seem to be and control the whole.”