“It is strange, too,” said she, “that I forgot to write about it. For it impressed me very much, and I was talking of it only the other day, when some girls were at the house.”
“Now,” I said, “we will speak of that strange thing, aloofness, the spectator’s point of view, that a while ago you could not understand. And I think to-day you will understand at once, for it is the sum and completeness of all we have said. Do you think you know now what I mean by aloofness? What do you think, Henry?”
“I think it means,” he said, “understanding with sympathy all the people about you, and the outsiders.”
“Yes,” I said; “but it means more than that.”
Alfred looked as if he knew.
“Well, Alfred?”
“Doesn’t it mean,” he asked, “being able to criticize and judge yourself?”
“Yes,” I said. “That is nearer; it means both, and more than both. It means being not only in yourself, but above and around, judging all things as if you were all the people, from the point of view of the whole world. You know what we mean when we say God. We mean that whole, the whole Self. It means seeing life from God’s point of view. It is as if we were spectator and also actor; doing our own little part in our own little lives, and yet seeing the whole, and caring most for that whole, and acting our part in relation to it, to please the vast spectator. Have you not yourselves had that experience? Have you not, even in exciting moments, suddenly felt as if you were outside yourself, looking on at yourself, and judging?”
“Yes,” said Marian, “I often do. Sometimes I laugh at myself. I see how foolish I am, but I go right on. For the actor and the spectator do not always agree.”
I said: “All goodness and power in life spring from making the actor and spectator agree, making the larger self include and manage the smaller self, and move it as a player moves a pawn. For, remember, it is not two separate selves, but one self, a vast sense of all life, inclusive of this smaller self which we control. Do you not realize that all heroism, all great and noble action is done so, in the spirit of the whole, for the vast spectator within us? When a man dies for a cause, he is that cause, he is far more than his own small self, and he gladly dies for that which includes and fulfils him. When a man gives up his life to save another man, he sees the whole thing as from above. He and the other man are one, are part of the same life, and he spends himself for himself.