So between them love did shine
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phœnix’ sight;
Either was the other’s mine.
Property was thus appalled,
That the self was not the same.
Single nature’s double name
Neither two nor one was called.
Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together.
To themselves, yet either—neither,
Simple were so well compounded
That it cried how true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none,
If what parts can so remain.”
What audacity of word and precision of thought! With what accuracy the paradoxes of love are stated! “To themselves, yet either—neither.” In the first stanza the sacred word “mutual” is introduced. Where else in our language is the conjunct self so completely set forth?
Yet we cannot pause even here. To make love a principle capable of universal application, it will need to be reconstituted and, while retaining its mutuality, to be stripped of sundry restrictions.
For love is ever selective. It chooses one and leaves another. It is exercised only toward definite persons, a little group, preferably two. The smaller the number the warmer the love. But what we are trying to discover is how altruism may penetrate the whole of life, organizing society and the state. That was our ambitious ideal, and love is not comprehensive enough for it. When we give ourselves up to the single person or small group fitted to receive our love, will there not be the same danger as appeared in the discussion of partnership, that the rest of the world will be shut out? A pair of lovers is notoriously unpleasing to everybody except themselves. In that little world of theirs they are so engrossed with the joint service of a common life that what happens in the needy world beyond is hardly noticed. Love of this sort is pretty far removed from universal altruism.
Nor is this danger confined to the passion of man for woman. Broader types of love show the same exclusive absorption. Each member of a household may be devoted to the rest and find his own gain through devotion to theirs. Here love attains a peculiarly beautiful mutuality. But it is still circumscribed. The family becomes sufficient for itself. Other families do not count. Love has been selective and, fixing its ardor on certain persons, shuts out the rest. Even the love of God and his children may narrow itself to interest in those only who approach him in the same way as ourselves. Our religious sympathy may not extend beyond our sect. Similar perils beset national love or patriotism.
No doubt in all these cases the narrower field may provide training for the broader; but so long as love is selective and waits upon personal interest it will be hard pressed by conditioning accident. Rightly does Spenser declare that for the combinations of love the stars’ consent is necessary. Circumstance, juxtaposition, plays a large part at the beginning of love. The one who would interest me may not happen to come my way; and I cannot love one whom I do not know. Obtaining such knowledge, too, even in regard to one very near, is uncertain business. I see some one who calls out what is best in me and am confident that joining with her will bring about a glorious life for us both. But can I be sure? An error in estimating will ruin not me alone but her too, whom I would honor. Knowledge, an important condition of love, is hard indeed to obtain. Nor in reckoning the hindrances to love as a universal principle can we pass by the mysteries of temperament. Many a person have we known to be lovable whom we could never love. Peculiarities of inheritance, training, habit, instinctive feeling in two persons, while not diminishing their worth, may render hopeless their adaptation to one another.
Selective love, then, hampered by its need of acquaintance, nearness, and knowledge, can never become a universal principle, binding mankind together. It shows, however, what we want. Nowhere else does altruistic fervor attain such depth. But it lacks breadth and is possible only within narrow bounds. We have been seeking to extend mutuality, the double gain, the abolition of both egoism and altruism, far beyond those bounds and reach a method by which mankind as a whole might engage in the joint service of a common life. Such an ideal would preserve all characteristics of love except its limitations. But the removal of these will affect it so deeply as to oblige a new name. I call it Justice.