“We have said that the farther away we are from something, the more beautiful it seems. This is true of music, which, besides being the most beautiful of arts, is the farthest away, for we cannot say anything definite with it, but must leave so much to the sympathy of the listeners. I like to think of this as a symbol of the beautiful completeness we hope to realize some far-distant day, and that then there will be something still more beautiful, that we shall know in times still farther off.”
I thought this an excellent paper, and I told Henry so. I said I was glad he had written more of musical composition than I had been able to tell him.
We spoke of some of our past meetings. Florence said: “I couldn’t make Henry see the difference between wit and humor.”
“I see it now,” he answered. “We discussed it in school.”
“So did we,” said Marian. “Isn’t it queer?”
They had been taking up drama, too, and so their club and school work harmonized.
I said: “You have heard people speak of the art of life. To me it seems that to make an art of life, to live it as if it were our creation, our work of art, is the best way, the most complete and beautiful way. You remember, I spoke to you of the three ways of looking at life, of writing books, for instance: The scientific way, the philosophic way, the artistic way. One can live life in these three ways, too; but to me the artistic way seems best.”
“Don’t you think,” asked Marian, “that if we lived as an art, we should be too apt to excuse ourselves?”
“How do you mean, Marian?”
“Because,” she went on, “we should admit the shadows in life as well as the light.”