But supposing the cult of Individualism, Liberty, Freedom, and so forth, has landed me in the state of egoism, the state so prettily and nauseously described by Henley in his Invictus: which, after all, is but the yelp of a house-dog, a domesticated creature with an inferiority complex!
“It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishment the scroll:
I am the master of my fate!
I am the captain of my soul!”
Are you, old boy? Then why hippety-hop?
He was a cripple at that!
As a matter of fact, it is the slave’s bravado! The modern slave is he who does not receive his powers from the unseen, and give reverence, but who thinks he is his own little boss. Only a slave would take the trouble to shout: “I am free!” That is to say, to shout it in the face of the open heavens. In the face of men, and their institutions and prisons. Yes-yes! But in the face of the open heavens I would be ashamed to talk about freedom. I have no life, no real power, unless it will come to me. And I accomplish nothing, not even my own fulfilled existence, unless I go forth, delicately, desirous, and find the mating of my desire; even if it be only the sky itself, and trees, and the cow Susan, and the inexpressible consolation of a statue of an Egyptian Pharaoh, or the Old Testament, or even three rubies. These answer my desire with fulfilment. What bunk then to talk about being master of my fate! when my fate depends upon these things:—not to mention the unseen reality that sends strength, or life into me, without which I am a gourd rattle.
The ego, the little conscious ego that I am, that doll-like entity, that mannikin made in ridiculous likeness of the Adam which I am: am I going to allow that that is all of me? And shout about it?
Of course, if I am nothing but an ego, and woman is nothing but another ego, then there is really no vital difference between us. Two little dolls of conscious entities, squeaking when you squeeze them. And with a tiny bit of an extraneous appendage to mark which is which.
“Woman is just the same as man,” loudly said the political speaker, “Save for a very little difference.”
“Three cheers for the very little difference!” says a vulgar voice from the crowd.
But that’s a chestnut.