Part 67

“Surely,” they said.

“And,” I went on, “I want something more of you. I have noticed that you all are very shy about talking of the club to outsiders. But it seems to me that it is worth while telling your thought and your truth, that you must not only seek, but share what you find.”

“You mean,” said Virginia, “that we should try to get converts, like the Catholics?”

“Yes,” I answered, “converts to seeking.”

“It is very hard,” Ruth said, “to talk to outsiders of these things. I can tell my mother. She understands. But we have made a language of our own at the club, and other people don’t understand it. When I begin to tell them, they ask: ‘What sort of language are you using?’”

“That is a pity,” I answered, “and yet we could hardly help it. Perhaps we should have tried to use other words.”

“No,” said Ruth, “I think it is a very beautiful language, and we must use it. But it makes it hard to tell others.”

“People don’t want to understand,” said Henry. “When you begin to tell them what it is about, they make up their minds they won’t understand such things. They set out with that idea.”

Marian said: “I often speak of certain things we discussed, just as the other day I was speaking of women’s professions and social life. But it is impossible to tell the whole idea. One would have to begin at the beginning.”

“Yes,” I answered, “it would be a whole course. So you have to content yourself with telling the unessential parts. But I hope that you will absorb this idea into your life and your actions, and then find new words in which to tell the same truth almost unconsciously, words that will be made clear to all through your own experience.

“We see clearly how each one of us will draw strength and judgment from his limitless whole self. And the knowledge of our greatest desire will make us teach our lesser desires to follow it, will make us shape and use the whole of our life for the thing we want and love.

“And now I wish to ask you each a question. What particular thing or power seems most dear and necessary to you in your own life, in order to fulfil your aim. Alfred, tell me. Do you know? Or do you want time to think of it?”

“What I want most,” said Alfred, “is the power to calculate and judge how things are going to turn out. To plan well.”

“What I want most,” said Marian, “is to be the sort of girl I wish to be. To be like my idea of myself.”

“What I want most,” said Virginia, “is to have fun, to be happy.”

“What does that mean?” asked Henry. “Happiness, for each one of us, is having what we want most.”

“Well,” said Virginia, “I like life to be pleasant for me and for all the people about me.”

“What I want most,” said Florence, “is to be loved.”

“Only to be loved, or to love, too?”

“To be loved and to love.”

Ruth said: “That is what I want most, too.”

Henry said: “I agree with them.”

They all seemed to wish they had said it. Virginia added: “If you are happy, you are loved.”

“Lately,” said I, “this last week, a leader of clubs told me he had asked this same question of a club of boys. I wanted to see what you would answer.”

“What did they answer?”

“They, all but one, answered ‘Money.’ The one said he wished to make beautiful things.”

“That is a fine answer,” Virginia said. “I’m sure I would like him.”

“I know,” said Henry, “a great many boys feel that way. I happen to know of that club. One of those boys said to me lately, what he wanted most was to have lots of money, so he could enjoy himself. But I think after he had the money, he would not find the enjoyment satisfying.”