Wherever you are, it is somewhere else.
It is the land of the unattainable, the island that has never been
discovered, the shore no ship has ever reached.
Who has found that moment, spoken of by Goethe, where one can say, “Let
this moment last forever”?
We were sitting on the top of the mountain, on the platform in front of
the little inn, Anushka and I, looking far out over the successive
ranges of the Sierras that extended wave-like everywhere. The sun was
brilliant. The air was warm. Around us was spread a panorama as
beautiful as mortal eyes had ever seen. I was about to ask Anushka if
she was happy, when she pointed to a spot over the farthest peaks where
the clouds touched the mountain-tops and a gleam of sunshine blessed
them, and said:
“There! My soul is yonder. Do you see that spot? It is the
dwelling-place of light ineffable. All is peace and joy there. I think
that must be heaven.”
“You are right,” I answered. “That is heaven—from here. But when you get
there you will find it only mist. From here those clouds are white and
gold, and angels fly among them. If you could reach them you would find
it bleak and cold, with only rocks and snow-drifts and desolation about
you.
“Then perhaps you might see, farther on in the distance, another point
full of glory. If you flew to that you would find your glory-point just
as far away as ever.
“So heaven flies before us. To us heaven is on Venus, or Saturn, or
Arcturus; to the inhabitants of those spheres, who knows? Maybe heaven
is on Tellus.”
“That,” she said, “seems a bitter view.”
“Not at all,” I returned. “It is the only view that makes happiness
eternal. The one everlasting faculty of mankind is anticipation. The one
inexhaustible fountain of joy is hope. Those whose happiness is located
in the land of hope will always be happy.
“Heaven is in the future, because the future is infinite. Besides, the
future is the only time when we can be happy without alloy. The past,
even as to the pleasantest moments of it, is always a little sad. So no
one’s heaven is in the past. The present is fleeting, sinking every
minute into the darkness of the past. So no man’s heaven is in the
present. In the future alone is pure, ideal, untainted joy.
“We are born pilgrims and strangers. The birds of the air have nests,
and the foxes have holes, but man has not where to lay his head. He is
the gypsy of the universe. He is the bird of passage of the world.”
“But I have been happy,” protested Anushka.
“Possibly,” I said. “But what keys you up to live, what stimulates and
inspires you, is not the happiness you have had, but the happiness you
expect to have.
“The surest, stablest thing in life is heaven. It rests upon the
enduring stones of hope. Its pillars are all of the alabaster of
anticipation. It is a city of eternity, not of time. Therefore it is
that its gates are never shut, night nor day.”