Part 14

Now it seems to me that expressions of this kind are as fallacious and as injurious as any booster’s standard of mere quantity; for what are these gentlemen trying to say except that as the earth is so tiny in comparison with other stars it must necessarily follow that man himself is a very unimportant factor in the universe? On the contrary, I believe the earth to be the most important spot in the entire creation and that the most precious thing on the earth is man--men, women and children.

The ordinary ignoramus looks at the starry vault and exclaims: “There are all those stars and every one inhabited with life!” As a matter of fact the latest researches of science show that the rarest thing in the entire universe is human life. There is not one vestige of evidence to show that life exists anywhere except on the earth.

The universe is frightfully hot. The fixed stars have a temperature ranging from nearly two thousand degrees to more than thirty thousand degrees, which is considerably hotter than the Needles in California. Furthermore, among all the heavenly bodies _planets_ are the most scarce, and the only conditions which can produce a planet occur almost never. Now the planets in our particular little solar system had the good luck to come into being, and of these planets only the earth can support human life. The late Percival Lowell, an eminent astronomer and a gallant gentleman, looking at the sky through the clear air of Arizona, thought he saw evidence of the intelligent work of beings on Mars, but he saw it because his telescope was not good enough; “bigger and better” telescopes destroyed the illusory things he thought he saw.

I advise all those who believe in the insignificance of man because he lives on a small ball to read the last chapter of Sir James Jeans’s book _The Universe Around Us_. Sir James does not himself say that man has a divine destiny, because that is not the subject of his book. But he does say: “All this suggests that only an infinitesimally small corner of the universe can be in the least suited to form an abode of life.”

People used to be flabbergasted by the consideration of the vastness of the starry heavens while retaining their respect for man and their own self-respect; but of late years many astronomers, by applying the “big and little” method of measurement, have tried to convince us that man is of no importance. Thus astronomy, instead of filling its students with majestic wonder, fills them with despair. To these scientific boosters it is the devout and not the undevout astronomer who is mad.

Fear not, little flock. We are no longer the geographical centre of the universe, but--so far as evidence goes--we are the only part of it that amounts to anything.

LII

WHAT SHALL I THINK ABOUT?

“What shall I think about when I am dying?” said Turgeney. Well, if I were dying at this moment, and were fortunate enough to be conscious--for death is an adventure no one ought to miss--I should endeavour to compose my mind and prepare it properly for its next experience. Then, having made whatever arrangements were necessary for the welfare of those I leave, I might--if there were time--review some of the events of my days on earth from which I had derived the largest amount of pleasure.

Omitting religion and family life, the two greatest sources of happiness that I know, which need no explanation to those familiar with them, and which no language could possibly explain to those unacquainted with them, I must honestly say I have found life good. I would not have missed it for anything. There have of course been misfortunes, illnesses, periods of mental depression, failures, loss of friends, and the general sense of frustration that afflicts every candid mind. But these are shadows, and my life has mainly been passed in sunshine.

It would of course be very nice to be an immortal poet or an immortal something-or-other; to feel the steadfast assurance that one had left on earth some enduring work that would remain as a permanent memorial. But although one knows, as I do, that everything one has done will be speedily forgotten, I do not see why that should make one miserable. Why spend one’s life or even one’s last moments in crying for the moon? Why not make the best of the good old world?

That daily life is really good one appreciates when one wakes from a horrible dream, or when one takes the first outing after a sickness. Why not realise it now?

My life has been divided into four parts--Work, Play, Development, Social Pleasures. Work is man’s greatest blessing. Whenever it is in any way possible, every boy and girl should choose as his life work some occupation which he would like to do anyhow, even if he does not need the money. It has always been necessary for me to work, but if at any time during the last twenty years some eccentric person had left me a million dollars, I should have gone right on working at my chosen professions, teaching, writing, and public speaking. I enjoy all three. I enjoy them so much that I have no hesitation in saying that I enjoy them more than vacations. There are better teachers, there are better writers, there are better lecturers; but I doubt if any of them have enjoyed their work more than I.

I have also had an enormous amount of fun out of play. I am a playboy, and shall never get over it. I like all kinds of games, except alley-bowling, just as I like all famous music except that by Meyerbeer. In every game I have never succeeded in rising above mediocrity; but here again I doubt if the great players--whom I nevertheless envy--have enjoyed playing football, baseball, hockey, tennis, golf, billiards, pool, duplicate whist--a better game than bridge--more than I have. If I were now given the opportunity to spend every single day for the next five hundred years in an invariable programme of work all the morning, golf all the afternoon, and social enjoyment all the evening, I should accept with alacrity, making only one stipulation--that at the end of the five hundred years I should have the privilege of renewal. And that’s that.

In cultural development, by which I mean the enrichment of the mind by Nature and by Art, I have had unspeakable delight. Yet I am neither a naturalist nor an artist. I don’t know anything about flowers, and very little about animals. I cannot draw or paint, or make anything with my hands. The only musical instrument I can play is a typewriter.

But no one loves the scenes of nature more than I. The first sunset that I remember with enjoyment occurred when I was ten years old; and how many I have seen since then! On an autumn day in 1903, I saw the sun sink into the ocean off the coast of Normandy, and, by the miracle of memory, I can see it again whenever I wish. I thought of Browning’s lines:

“Than by slow, pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the shore, At their sad level gaze o’er the ocean--a sun’s slow decline.”

I have seen the Matterhorn from the Gorner Grat, Mont Blanc from Chamonix, and the divine flush on the summit of the Jungfrau.

Forty years ago I heard for the first time the Ninth Symphony; and while I have heard it often since then, the most memorable occasion was in May 1912 when I heard it at Paris, played by a magnificent orchestra, conducted by Felix Weingartner; I have heard _Die Meistersinger_ in Munich, conducted by Arthur Nikisch; I have heard the Emperor Concerto, with Ossip Gabrilowitsch at the piano; I have heard _Tod und Verklärung_ with Stokowski and the Philadelphia Orchestra; I have heard De Pachmann (in his prime) play Chopin’s B flat minor sonata, Paderewski play Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, Josef Hofmann play Beethoven’s Sonata 111. I have heard _Carmen_ sung by Emma Calvé, Emma Eames, Jean de Reszké and Lassalle; _Tristan und Isolde_ sung by Jean de Reszké and Lilli Lehmann; _Faust_ sung by Jean and Edouard de Reszké, Emma Eames, Maurel, and Scalchi; _Mignon_ sung by Mme. Lucrezia Bori; I have repeatedly heard the three greatest bassos of modern times, Edouard de Reszké, Pol Plançon, and Chaliapin.

In the theatre I have seen Edwin Booth as Shylock, Mansfield as Richard III, Irving in _The Lyons Mail_, Possart as Mephistopheles, Sarah Bernhardt as La Tosca, Duse as Francesca, Salvini as Othello, and twice have I seen the Passion Play at Oberammergau. All these are memorable experiences, and for fear I may not be conscious when I am dying, I am recalling them now. But if I should attempt to recall all the glorious things I have seen in nature and in art, I should have no time for fresh experiences that await me.

As for social pleasures, one of the highest enjoyments is agreeable company and good conversation; and I especially like men, women and children.

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left unbalanced.

Just for the curious: Chapter XVIII has four references to “F. P. A.” but doesn’t give the full name. When this book was written, he was a well-known columnist: Franklin P. Adams.