“Fear,” I said, “cowardice, loss of self-control in crises, always comes when the actor forgets the spectator, when the spectator loses control.
“If ever you have been in any exciting crisis, and kept cool and above fear, then you will know what I mean; how you think of the whole, of all the people, and seem to be and control the whole.”
Ruth said she knew one never thought especially of one’s self at such a time. Experiences, however, were scarce. Virginia spoke of the time she was with me in a burning trolley car, and how she had been interested rather than excited. But then she was a very, very little girl. Ruth said she didn’t remember how she felt when she was almost run down by an automobile.
Marian asked: “One is not always conscious of the spectator?”
“No,” I answered, “one is conscious of him only at rare moments. For it is the actor who acts and lives, and the spectator controls him. The spectator is oftenest silent. He watches. And he must choose.”
“But is the spectator always sure?” asked Marian. “Sometimes you cannot tell what seems to you best, until you talk it over with others.”
“The spectator,” I said, “judges and chooses according to all he can know. Surely, he chooses in relation with others. He can use all experience; he goes even beyond his sorrow and pain. Do you understand? He goes beyond sorrow and pain, and uses them. Do you remember I spoke to you once of all things being a memory, of the body itself being a memory? The basis of all sympathy is experience and memory. So the spectator grows and uses everything. He is, as it were, in partnership with the whole, with God. And he rises on his own knowledge. The higher he goes, the farther can he see. Do you understand that aloofness, the judging from the standpoint of the whole, of the whole self, is the basis of morality? It is the part judging and living for the whole. Those who know this make the laws for all, according to their knowledge; and the others, who are only actors, whose spectator is not wide awake, have to obey.”
At first they protested. Was this true? They did not understand. Henry asked did I mean making laws to control anarchists? I explained how some had to be forced to conform, even for their own good, and how the others were free, because the law that was good for all, they knew to be best for themselves.
I said: “My own limited personal life is my weapon and means, the only weapon and means I have to come to completeness. I will always remember that it is a means, something to use; but it is my only means, and for that reason it is important and precious to me above all else.”
“You mean,” said Virginia, “that you don’t want to dream away your life, like the ascetics of the middle ages, who dreamed of the whole, but didn’t do their part?”