We are disgusted and impatient with “peo-pul” just to the extent that our realization of superiority fails us. That impatient attitude reminds me of the ordinary attitude of the white toward the black. The white man is not sure of himself; history and biology do not give him sufficient support. So he bullies negroes at every opportunity. Some men even are impelled to contend for their superiority by abusing dogs.
The sense of superiority abides in all living things of necessity, else no form of life would stand out against any other. Wild creatures never need argue, each with himself, as to his place in the world. His right to exist and to express himself is paramount in the animal’s soul. Only man ever doubts.
Really “peo-pul” do not doubt. They with the artist’s mark on them do the doubting. When it is very faint, their doubting asserts itself in strange ways and the crude egoism thereof revolts us. “Peo-pul” crawl along self-satisfied.
And why do you ask so much of artists? Why is it so important that they should use their strength in vain strivings to make butterflies of worms never destined to be butterflies or to amuse other artists who should be able to amuse themselves? If they get joy out of creating and preaching, let them preach and create—let them soar. If they get joy out of being, out of exultant living and watching, let them live, and do not scold.
The most beautiful butterfly I ever saw (some kind of “Emperor”) merely rested on a lump of mud in the forest shade and very languidly moved his wings. That is all he did while I looked at him. He knew that he could fly, I knew that he could fly, and he either knew that I knew or else he didn’t care.
We all know what impatience with “peo-pul” is. In the hush of a great flash of dramatic power from the stage, they giggle, and it would be good to fasten your fingers in the pulpy throat of one. They applaud idiotic vaudeville, and it would be glorious to arise, automatic in hand, and slay and slay.
That is your distrust of yourself—we all have it as much as we deserve it.
“So I belong to this species!” you say.
I do not hate my dog when he seeks out carrion. I wash him with strong soap and try to explain him. I feel quite sure—most of the time—that I have come a little further than he has.
“Peo-pul” are even more interesting than dogs, when taken individually. We even have more in common with them than with other animals.