Yet although for high-spirited marchers the march is sufficient,
there still is that other way of looking at it that we dare not
forget. Our adventure may satisfy _us:_ does it satisfy Nature?
She is letting us camp for awhile here among the wrecked graveyards
of mightier dynasties, not one of which met her tests. Their bones
are the message the epochs she murdered have left us: we have learned
to decipher their sickening warning at last.
Yes, and even if we are permitted to have a long reign, and are not
laid away with the failures, are we a success?
We need so much spiritual insight, and we have so little. Our
telescopes may some day disclose to us the hills of Arcturus, but
how will that help us if we cannot find the soul of the world? Is
that soul alive and loving? or cruel? or callous? or dead?
We have no sure vision. Hopes, guesses, beliefs--that is all.
There are sounds we are deaf to, there are strange sights invisible
to us. There are whole realms of splendor, it may be, of which
we are heedless; and which we are as blind to as ants to the call
of the sea.
Life is enormously flexible--look at all that we've done to our
dogs,--but we carry our hairy past with us wherever we go. The
wise St. Bernards and the selfish toy lap-dogs are brothers, and
some things are possible for them and others are not. So with us.
There are definite limits to simian civilizations, due in part to
some primitive traits that help keep us alive, and in part to the
mere fact that every being has to be something, and when one is a
simian one is not also everything else. Our main-springs are fixed,
and our principal traits are deep-rooted. We cannot now re-live
the ages whose imprint we bear.
We have but to look back on our past to have hope in our future:
but--it will be only _our_ future, not some other race's. We shall
win our own triumphs, yet know that they would have been different,
had we cared above all for creativeness, beauty, or love.
So we run about, busy and active, marooned on this star, always
violently struggling, yet with no clearly seen goal before us.
Men, animals, insects--what tribe of us asks any object, except
to keep trying to satisfy its own master appetite? If the ants
were earth's lords they would make no more use of their lordship
than to learn and enforce every possible method of foiling. Cats
would spend their span of life, say, trying new kinds of guile.
And we, who crave so much to know, crave so little but knowing.
Some of us wish to know Nature most; those are the scientists.
Others, the saints and philosophers, wish to know God. Both are
alike in their hearts, yes, in spite of their quarrels. Both
seek to assuage to no end, the old simian thirst.
If we wanted to _be_ Gods--but ah, can we grasp that ambition?