Space and Time, its invisible brother, are perhaps the two great enemies
of mankind. Could we conquer these, we should be as the gods. Time seems
invincible, having neither body nor form, no organs by which we can
seize it. It passes, leaving traces that nearly always are sad, like the
baleful shadow of some inevitable being we never have seen face to face.
In itself doubtless it has no existence, but is only in relation to us;
nor shall we ever succeed in bending to our will this necessary phantom
of our organically false imagination. But Space, its magnificent
brother, Space that decks itself with the green robe of the plains, the
yellow veil of the desert, the blue mantle of the sea, and spreads over
all the azure of the ether and the gold of the stars--Space, it may be,
has already known many defeats; but never as yet has man seized it, as
it were, round the body, grappled with it, alone, face to face. The
monsters he has hitherto launched against its gigantic mass might
conquer, but only to be conquered again in their turn.
On the sea great steamers subdue it day after day; but the sea is so
vast that the extreme speed our frail lungs were able to endure could
achieve no more than a kind of motionless triumph. And again, as we
travel by rail, and Space flies submissive before us, it is still far
away--we do not touch it, we do not enjoy it--it is like a captive
adorning the triumph of a foreign king, and we ourselves the feeble
prisoners of the power that has dethroned it. But here, in this little
chariot of fire, that is so light and so docile, so gloriously untiring;
here, beneath the unfolded wings of this bird of flame that flies low
down over the earth in the midst of the flowers, greeting cornfields and
rivulets, inviting the shade of the trees; passing village on village,
glancing in at the open doors and watching the tables spread for the
meal, counting the harvesters at work in the meadows, skirting the
church, half hidden by lime-trees, and taking its rest at the inn on the
stroke of noon--then setting forth once more, singing its song, to see
at one bound what is happening among men at three days' march from the
last place of halt, and surprising the very same hour in quite a new
world--here Space does indeed become human, in the line of our eye, in
accordance with the needs of our insatiable, exacting soul, that craves
at once for the small and the mighty, the quick and the slow; here it is
of us at last, it is ours, and offers at every turn glimpses of beauty
that, in former days, we could only enjoy when the tedious journey was
ended.
Now, however, it is not the arrival alone that causes our eyes to open,
that revives the eagerness so precious to life, and invites admiration;
now the entire road is one long succession of arrivals. The joys of the
journey's end are multiplied, for all things adopt the admirable form of
the end; the eyes are idle no longer, no longer indifferent; and memory,
simplest of all the fairies whose touch of the wand brings
happiness--memory, pondering silently on the less happy days that await
every man, treasures the beauties of good mother earth; and fixes for
ever, among those possessions of which none can deprive us, the
unexpected gifts that have been so abundantly offered by the glad hours
and the enfranchised roads.