Uncle Peabody’s mood had changed from amusement to interest. “If I really thought you were sincere in the attitude you take,” he said, addressing Armstrong, “I could prescribe no better cure for your complaint than to force you to subject yourself, for one single week, to those same conditions which you seem to admire so much.”
“If you refer to conveniences, Mr. Cartwright,” interrupted Armstrong, “I will admit without argument that you are right. These are wholly the result of material development.”
“Let us confine ourselves to intellectual achievements if you choose,” continued Uncle Peabody. “Without an intellect, could one harness steam and electricity and make them obedient to the human will? Is not a wireless message an echo from the brain? What is the telephone if not a product of thought?”
“You and Miss Thayer are arguing my case far better than I can do it myself,” replied Armstrong, undisturbed. “The triumphs of Watt and Edison and Marconi and Bell are all intellectual, even though utilitarian. Each of these men has proved himself humanistic, in that he has given to the world the best that is in him, and not simply modified or readapted some previous achievement. If they were not limited by living in an age of specialization they might even have been humanists. Right here in Italy you see the same thing to-day. The Italians are beyond any other race intellectually fit to rule the world now as they once did, and it is simply because they have been unable to withstand materialism that they have not reclaimed their own.”
“Just what do you mean by ‘humanism,’ Jack?” Helen asked, abruptly.
“The final definition of modern humanism will not be written for several years,” Armstrong answered. “The world is not yet ready for it, and I am afraid Cerini’s creed of ancient humanism would strike you as being rather heavy.”
“Let me see if I could comprehend it.” Helen looked across to Inez, and the eyes of the two girls met with mutual understanding. “Can you repeat it?”
“I know it word for word,” her husband replied, eagerly, delighted to have Helen manifest an interest. “It was the first lesson the old man taught me, years ago. ‘The humanist,’ Cerini says, ‘is the man who not only knows intimately the ancients and is inspired by them: it is he who is so fascinated by their magic spell that he copies them, imitates them, rehearses their lessons, adopts their models and their methods, their examples and their gods, their spirit and their tongue.’”
Helen was visibly disappointed. “I thought I had an idea,” she said, slowly, “but I was wrong. Inez used the word ‘humanities’ a few moments ago, and I once heard President Eliot say that this was simply another name for a liberal education—teaching men to drink in the inspiration of all the ages and to seek to make their age the best.”
“You are not wrong, Helen,” continued Armstrong, “unless you understand President Eliot to mean that the ages which have come since these great men lived have been able to add particularly to what has gone before. All that is included in what Cerini says.”