“Yes,” I said, “but I want it more definitely. The good is a sign of that completeness. To the truly good man, as much as he knows of the world, or dreams of it, is his whole self. And he wants that whole self to be right. The good man cannot be wholly good until every one else is so. The world must be perfect to satisfy his desire for good.”
Ruth said: “It is what you told us before, that we cannot be perfect unless the universe is perfect. But it seems to me that a man may be just as good, though others are bad.”
“Yes,” I said, “he can do his best to fill out the gaps and make his relations right, but his goodness will not wholly satisfy him. On the other hand, the self-righteous man, who lives according to precepts and rules, is easily satisfied with himself. Goodness is beauty. The good is always the beautiful action. But goodness, according to laws and precepts which are outworn, which we have left behind us, is no longer beautiful for us.”
Virginia pointed out that in this, then, goodness differed from art, for the objects of art remained beautiful through hundreds of years.
“Six hundred years ago,” she said, “men painted pictures which probably cannot be equalled to-day.”
“But,” I answered, “a man trying to paint like Raphael now, would not paint beautifully.”
“No,” said she; “but if he tried to paint like Franz Hals or Rembrandt he might.”
“Not at all,” I answered.
“Of course,” she admitted, “he would have to paint like himself, to be himself.”
“Surely,” said I, “and so with goodness. Each man has his own particular goodness, according to his circumstances and nature. But, just as a beautiful picture is eternally beautiful, so goodness in the past, though it no longer seems good to us for practice, is always delightful to think of, though it would be horrible to imitate. For instance, the self-imposed poverty of St. Francis of Assisi.”