He had a philosophy as yet untouched. His stars were the old stars, his faith the old faith; nor would he recognize that there was any other, for not to recognize any point of view except his own was no doubt the very essence of his faith. Wisdom! There was surely none save the flinging of the door to, standing with your back against that door, and telling people what was behind it. For though he did not know what was behind, he thought it low to say so. An “atheist,” as he termed certain persons, was to him beneath contempt; an “agnostic,” as he termed certain others, a poor and foolish creature. As for a rationalist, positivist, pragmatist, or any other “ist”—well, that was just what they were. He made no secret of the fact that he simply could not understand people like that. It was true. “What can they do save deny?” he would say. “What do they contribute to the morals and the elevation of the world? What do they put in place of what they take away? What have they got, to make up for what is behind that door? Where are their symbols? How shall they move and leave the people?” “No,” he said; “a little child shall lead them, and I am the little child. For I can spin them a tale, such as children love, of what is behind the door.” Such was the temper of his mind that he never flinched from believing true what he thought would benefit himself and others. Amongst other things he held a crown of ultimate advantage to be necessary to pure and stable living. If one could not say: “Listen, children, there it is, behind the door. Look at it, shining, golden—yours! Not now, but when you die, if you are good.”... If one could not say that, what could one say? What inducement hold out?...
This is merely the first paragraph. The rest is even better. Such an analysis ought to extinguish the Puritan forever—except that he won’t understand it. He’ll think it was aimed at his neighbor. He knows any number of men like that....
Knowledge or Prejudice
A critic writes us that he finds no fault with freedom of speech, and that Emma Goldman’s disregard of ordinary moral laws and blasphemy of religion do not destroy the fact that she exists. But such an article about her as appeared in our last issue is well calculated to make us appear absurd, he thinks; it sounds like the oration of some one who is just beginning to discover the things that the world has known always; and he closes with this deliciously naïve question: “Do you believe in listening respectfully to advocates of free love, and, because of their daring, applauding them?”
Yes, we believe in listening respectfully to any sincere programme; we believe that is the only way people get to understand things. We even believe in listening seriously to insincere programmes, because the insincere person usually thinks he is sincere and helps one to understand even more. By doing all these things one is likely to reach that altitude where “to understand all is to forgive all.”
As for “advocates of free love”—we recall the impatient comment of a well-known woman novelist: “When will people stop using that silly, superfluous phrase ‘free love’? We don’t talk about ‘cold ice’ or ‘black coal’!”
And, though our applause was not confined to Emma Goldman’s daring, as our critic would probably concede, is not daring a thing worthy of applause? Just as conflict is better than mediation, or suffering than security, daring is so much more legitimate an attitude than complacency.
But it is that remark about “things the world has known always” which exasperates us the most. The world has not known them always; it doesn’t know them now. It has heard of them vaguely—just to the point of becoming prejudiced about them. And prejudice is the first element that sneaks away when knowledge begins to develop. If the world represented by our critic knew these things it might be roused to daring, too.
Rupert Brooke’s Visit
Rupert Brooke was in Chicago for a few days last month. One of the most interesting things to us about his visit was that he so quickly justified all the theories we have had about him since we first read his poetry. First, that only the most pristine freshness could have produced those poems that some people have been calling decadent; second, that while he probably is “the most beautiful young man in England” it was rather silly of Mr. Yeats to add that he is also “the wearer of the most gorgeous shirts.” Because Rupert Brooke doesn’t wear gorgeous shirts; he appears to have very little interest in shirts, as we expected. He is too concerned with the big business of life and poetry. He is, as a very astute young member of our staff suggested, somehow like the sea.