Henry remarked that perhaps, when she was looking out of the window, she studied the landscapes. At this point Marian, hearing voices in the next room, whispered to Ruth whether she knew who was there. “Strange,” I said. “Until you spoke of it, I did not notice any voices. Do you love this club? Well, I do, too; and when I am here, no matter what happened before, or will happen afterward, or may be happening now, I think of nothing but what we are doing, I forget everything else. Do you remember the difference between the painting and the photograph? The photographic plate takes every detail, unimportant and meaningless; the picture contains only that which makes it complete and beautiful. Let your life be a picture, not a photograph. Do not let your life be a sensitive plate that cannot defend itself against any impression. Let it be an artist’s work, chosen, complete, beautiful. Leave out what does not concern you. “Now, what is it,” I asked, “which all of us do love best, and which includes all our lesser loves?” Henry answered: “You mean complete sympathy and understanding.” “Yes,” I went on, “and all our lives are different, definite expressions of that desire.” We spoke a few words of those people who mistake the means for the end, who make an end of business, athletics, or even study, so that they forget these are only a means to the end, and destroy or waste their own powers in some pettiness. “Each life,” I said, “must be a different, definite expression of the longing for unity.” “Definite?” asked Marian again. “If I were always to be thinking what sort of person I meant to be, I would be dreadfully self-conscious.” “No,” I said, “you would not think it, you would live it. Desire is a habit. Self-consciousness of the stilted sort attempts to realize what sort of person you appear or are, and then to act your part. Then you usually fail, and you are usually wrong in your estimate. But know what you long to be; and then be it, because of your strong desire. It is not necessary to have chosen your life-work now, but you will choose it some day, and meanwhile you want to be ready and open for it. You and Alfred have not yet chosen, nor need choose. But the others believe they have chosen. And there is no reason why each one should not do just what he sets out to do. Each life and each moment of each life is tremendously important. Each man is as great as he loves to be. The difference between the great genius and the common, scattered man, is the difference in desire. Great desire makes great deeds. It is not so much capacity, so called, as the desire, the concentration and the belief that you can.” “Self-confidence,” they said. “Yes, surely. When a man has his call, when he feels that he must do a thing, then he can. Did you ever think of the word ‘calling,’ what a tremendous thing it means?” “Vocation,” said Ruth.