APES AND MONKEYS.
Sheikh Kemal el Din Demiri, a learned Arab, who died at Damascus about the year 1405, according to our reckoning, relates in his book, Heiat el Heivan; or, The Life of Animals, the following wonderful story, which is based on one of the Prophet’s utterances:—
“Long before Mohammed, the Prophet and Messenger of God the All-merciful, had kindled the light of Faith, before Issa or Jesus of Nazareth had lived and taught, the town Aila, on the Red Sea, was inhabited by a numerous population who professed the Jewish faith. But they were sinners and unrighteous in the eyes of the Lord, for they desecrated continually the sacred day of the All-merciful, the Sabbath. In vain did pious and wise men warn the sinful inhabitants of the godless city; they disregarded the command of the Almighty as before. Then those who had warned them forsook the unholy place, shook the dust off their feet, and resolved to serve Elohim elsewhere. But, after three days had passed, the longing for home and friends drove them back to Aila. There a wonderful sight met their gaze. The gates of the town were shut, but the battlements of the walls were unguarded, so that they were not hindered from climbing over them. But the streets and market-place of the unhappy town were deserted. Where formerly the restless sea of human life had surged and swelled, where buyers and sellers, priests and officials, artisans and fishermen, had mingled in a motley throng, gigantic baboons now sat and crouched, ran and climbed; and from the windows and recesses, the terraces and roofs, where dark-eyed women had tarried, she-baboons now looked down upon the streets. And all the giant monkeys and their comely mates were sad and downcast, and they gazed with troubled eyes on the returned pilgrims, pressing closely to them with complaining moans and prayerful cries. With surprise and sadness the pious pilgrims gazed upon the strange sight, until to one of them came the comfortless thought that these might be their former relatives degraded to monkeys. To make certain, the wise man went straight to his own house. In the door of it, likewise, there sat a baboon; but this one, when he saw the righteous man, cast his eyes with pain and shame to the ground. ‘Tell me, by Allah the All-merciful, O Baboon,’ said the wise man, ‘art thou my son-in-law Ibrahim?’ And sadly the baboon answered, ‘Eva, Eva’ (I am). Then all doubt vanished from the mind of the pious man, and he recognized that, by God’s heavy judgment, the impious Sabbath-breakers had been transformed into ‘monkeys’.”
Sheikh Kemal el Din does not indeed venture to call this miracle in question, but as a thinking man he cannot refrain from expressing the opinion that perhaps the baboons may have existed before there were any Jews.
We, for our part, prettily imagined and related as the story is, accept this interpretation the more readily, that the apes with which the pious zealots of Aila may have had to do are old acquaintances of ours. For in Arabia there occur only the Hamadryas or sacred baboons; and we find the same excellently depicted on very ancient Egyptian monuments. It was the arrangement of their hair which appeared to the ancient Egyptians so remarkable that they chose it as a model for their sphinxes; while to this day it serves as a pattern for the coiffure of the dusky beauties of the Eastern Soudan. The sacred baboon holds a very important place in ancient Egyptian theology, as we learn, among other things, from Horapollon, interpreter of hieroglyphs. According to him the monkey was kept in the temples and embalmed after death. He was considered the inventor of writing, and was therefore not only sacred to Thoth or Mercury, the founder of all science, but a near relative of the Egyptian priests, and, on his ceremonious entrance into the sanctuary, he was subjected to an examination, in which the priest thrust a writing tablet, ink, and pen into his hand, and called upon him to write, that they might see whether he were worthy to be received or not. It was also maintained that he stood in secret relations with the moon, and that the latter exercised an extraordinary influence over him; and, finally, he was credited with the faculty of dividing time in so obvious a manner, that Trismegistus took his actions as the model after which he constructed his water-clock, which, like the monkey, divided day and night into twelve equal parts.
It is worthy of note that, while the ancient Egyptians regarded a relationship with the monkeys as probable, they did not deem it possible that they should be descended from a monkey stock. Such a view of the degree of relationship between man and monkey is first met with among the Indians. From very ancient times until the present day there has prevailed among them a belief that at least a few royal families are descended from one of the sacred monkeys, the Hanumân or Entellus, which, in India, is held as sacred, in a certain sense even as divine, and that the souls of departed kings return to the bodies of these monkeys. One of the reigning families, in particular, shows its pride in this descent through its adopted title of honour—“tailed Rana”.[66]
Fig. 42.—Entellus Monkeys (Semnopithecus Entellus).
Similar views to those prevailing among the Indians have come into vogue among ourselves in recent times, and the monkey question, which I should like to discuss shortly, yet so as to be generally understood, has raised much dust. A scientific question, of little general interest to the laity, has not only fanned pious anger to blazing flames, but has divided serious naturalists into two different parties who defend their respective positions with excited warmth. Circles, altogether alien to scientific investigation, have taken up the strife, without knowing or suspecting its real import and bearing, have even carried it into realms where it could only be productive of mischief, and have thereby caused a confusion which will not readily be cleared up. To discuss monkeys at all has therefore become a bold undertaking, for, in speaking of them, one runs a risk either of degrading the reputed ancestor, or, through him, of offending the supposed descendants—to say nothing of the inevitable abuse of the most pitiable kind which ill-mannered fanatics, blindly struggling against the spirit of the age, hurl at him who ventures to utter the word monkey. Nevertheless, the monkey question will not readily disappear from the order of the day; for these animals, so evidently our nearest relatives in the animal kingdom, are much too deserving of our sympathy, to allow of our being deterred by sentimental considerations from investigating their life and habits and comparing them with our own, that we may so enlarge our knowledge at once of monkeys and of men.
The following is a contribution to such knowledge:-
A general life-picture such as I wish to sketch is not easily condensed into few words, since the different species of monkeys vary so widely. There are about four hundred, or, at any rate, considerably more than three hundred species, and they inhabit every part of the world with the single exception of Australia; but they are found chiefly in the countries within the tropics. In America their range extends from twenty-eight degrees of southern latitude to the Caribbean Sea; in Africa it stretches from thirty-five degrees southern latitude to the Straits of Gibraltar; in Europe their occurrence is limited to the Rock of Gibraltar, where, from time immemorial, a troop of about twenty magots or Barbary macaques have existed, and are now protected and preserved by the garrison of the Fort.[67] Forests and rocky mountains, which they ascend to a height of more than 8000 feet, are their favourite habitats. In such places they remain, with the exception of a few species, year in year out, giving heed to the rotation of the seasons only to the extent of undertaking more or less extensive expeditions through the forest in search of ripening fruits, or ascending the mountains at the beginning of the warm season, and descending again before cold weather sets in; for, though they may be met with even in snow-covered regions, they are as fond of warmth as they are of abundant and varied diet. Something to bite and crack there must be if they are to remain permanently or for any length of time in a place; failing that, they shift their quarters. Woods in the neighbourhood of human settlements are to them a paradise; the forbidden tree therein troubles them not at all. Maize and sugar-cane fields, orchards, banana, plantain, and melon plantations they regard as their rightful and peculiar feeding-grounds, and districts where they are protected by the piety of the inhabitants they also consider very agreeable places of abode.
All monkeys, with perhaps the exception of the so-called anthropoid apes, live in bands of considerable strength under the leadership of an old male. The occupant of this post of dignity rises to it by recognized all-round ability; the strongest arms and longest teeth decide the matter. While among those mammals which are led by a female member of the herd the rest obey willingly, the monkey-leader is an absolute despot of the worst type, who compels his subjects to unconditional obedience. If anyone refuses submission, he is brought to a sense of his duty by bites, pinchings, and blows. The monkey-leader requires the most slavish submission from all the monkeys of his herd, females as well as males. He shows no chivalry towards the weaker sex—“In Sturm erringt er der Minne Sold”.
His discipline is strict, his will unbending. No young monkey dare presume to make love to one of the females of his herd; no female may venture to show favour to any male except himself. He rules despotically over his harem, and his seed, like that of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, is like the sand of the sea-shore for multitude. If the herd becomes too large, a troop separates itself, under the leadership of a full-grown male, to form a new community. Till then the leader is obeyed by all, and is as much honoured as feared. Old experienced mothers, as well as young scarcely grown-up females, strive to flatter him; exerting themselves especially to show him continually that highest favour one monkey can render to another—cleansing his hairy coat from all things not appertaining thereto. He, on his part, accepts such homage with the demeanour of a pasha whose favourite slave tickles his feet. The esteem which he has been able to evoke gives him confidence and dignity of bearing; the battles in which he has constantly to take part give him watchfulness, courage, and self-control; the necessity of maintaining his authority develops circumspection, astuteness, and cunning. These qualities are certainly used in the first place for his own advantage, but the rest of the community also benefit by them, and his unchallenged supremacy thus receives some justification and stability. Ruled and guided by him, the herd, though violent storms may rage within it, leads on the whole a very secure, and therefore a comfortable life.
All monkeys, except the few nocturnal species, are active by day and rest at night. Some time after sunrise they awake from sleep. Their first business is to sun and clean themselves. If the night is cold and inhospitable, they attempt to improve their comfortless couch by thronging together in a heap, or rather a cluster; but are still so cold in the morning that a long sun-bath seems absolutely necessary. As soon as the dew is dry, they leave their sleeping-places, climb to the tree-top or to the highest point of the rock, select a sunny seat, and leisurely turn themselves about on it till every part of their bodies has been exposed to the sun. When the fur is dried and thoroughly warm it is ready for cleaning, and each monkey sets to work eagerly and carefully, or requests and receives from one of his fellows the service which he, in his turn, is always ready to do to others.
When the fur has been cleaned, and, if necessary, brushed into sleekness, the monkeys begin to think of breakfast. This presents no difficulty, for they refuse nothing that is edible, and a tax is levied on the animal and the vegetable kingdom alike. Forest and mountainous districts afford fruits, leaf and flower buds, birds’ nests with eggs or young, snails and grubs; gardens yield fruit and vegetables, fields supply cereals and pulses. Here a ripening ear is broken off, there a juicy fruit is gathered, in the tree a bird’s nest is plundered, on the ground a stone is turned over, in a settlement a garden is stripped or a field robbed, and something is carried away from all. If he has time, every single monkey destroys ten times as much as he eats, and can therefore very materially damage the produce of the farmer, gardener, or fruit-grower. At the beginning of an expedition each monkey, in his anxiety to secure himself a meal whatever may happen, devours almost indiscriminately whatever he can reach; then, if he possesses cheek-pouches, he stuffs these as full as possible; but as soon as his most pressing necessities are relieved, he selects and criticises every bite, carefully examining and smelling every fruit he plucks, every ear he breaks, before eating it, and indeed in most cases simply throwing one thing after another carelessly away to seize something different, which as often as not is rejected in its turn. “We sow, and the monkeys reap,” the inhabitants of the Eastern Soudan complained to me, and with justice. Against thieves like these, neither fence nor wall, lock nor bolt, are sufficient protection; they climb the first, and open the last; and what they cannot eat they carry away. It is at once amusing and painful to watch them feeding, for then, as at all times, their behaviour is a mixture of boldness and artfulness, bravado and cunning, love of enjoyment and caution, and indeed also of trickery and spitefulness, impudence and malevolence. All their skill and dexterity is brought into play when an undertaking seems dangerous. They run, climb, leap, if need be even swim to overcome obstacles; but in no case do they forget their care for their individual safety. The commander always leads the way, and coaxes, calls, chides, warns, cries, scolds, and punishes as seems to him good; the herd follows and obeys, but without ever entirely trusting him. In danger every member of the herd looks out for its own safety, rejoining the leader after that is assured; the mothers with a young one at their breasts, or on their backs, are an exception, for they are, or seem to be, less concerned about their own safety than that of their child.
When their expeditions are not attended with danger they often rest, and give the young ones opportunity to amuse themselves together; but when there is any danger they finish their expedition and then enjoy a period of rest and relaxation, during which they often indulge in a siesta to help their digestion. In the afternoon they set out on another foraging expedition; towards sundown they repair to their usual sleeping-place, which is as far as possible out of the reach of beasts of prey, and, after prolonged wrangling and disputing, scolding and brawling, they seek their well-earned rest.
Apart from occasional compulsory or apparently profitable migrations, the order of the day above described suffers little change. Reproduction, which brings about such marked changes in the lives of other animals, has very little influence on that of the monkeys, for it is limited to no special time, and the mothers carry their young ones with them wherever they go. The young ones, of which most species produce only one at a birth, come into the world as well-developed creatures, with open eyes, but according to our ideas they are extremely ugly, and, notwithstanding their comparatively advanced development, very helpless creatures.[68] They appear ugly because their wrinkled faces and wide open, lively eyes give them the expression of an old man, and their short hair makes their long fore limbs look longer than they really are; they show themselves helpless in that they can make no use of these limbs except to attach themselves to their mother’s breast. Here they hang, with arms and hands round her neck, legs and feet round her hips, without seeming to move anything but their heads for weeks together, and the mother is therefore able, without being appreciably burdened, to go about her ordinary affairs, and wanders as usual along the most breakneck paths, or indulges in the boldest leaps. After some time, rarely within a month, the little ones begin to attempt some movements, but perform them so awkwardly that they excite pity rather than laughter. Perhaps because of this very helplessness, the little monsters are watched and handled by their mothers with such tenderness that the expression “monkey-love” is fully justified. Every monkey mother finds constant occupation in looking after her baby. Now she licks it, now cleans its coat, now lays it to her breast, now holds it in both hands as if she wished to feast her eyes on it, and now she rocks it as if to lull it to sleep. If she sees that she is watched she turns away, as if she grudged anyone else a sight of her darling. When it is older and able to move about it is sometimes allowed to leave its mother’s breast for a little, and to play with others like itself, but it remains meanwhile under strict control, and, if it does not obey instantly, is punished with slaps and pinches. The maternal care extends even to the food. Greedy as the mother generally is, she divides every bite with her young one, yet she does not allow it to hurt itself by too hasty or immoderate eating, but interferes, in such a case, with motherly prudence. But there is rarely any necessity for such interference or for severe punishment, for the monkey-child is obedient enough to be held up as an example to many a human one. Very touching is the conduct of the mother when her little one is obviously suffering; if it dies she is in despair. For hours, even days, she carries the little corpse about with her, refuses all nourishment, sits indifferently in the same spot, and often literally pines to death.[69] The young monkey itself is incapable of such deep grief, and it is also better taken care of than most other animals if it loses its mother. For the next best member of the band, whether male or female, possessed by that love of mothering something, which is strong in all monkeys, takes charge of the little orphan and caresses it warmly. Unfortunately, however, the foster-parent is often at war with its better self about its beloved food, and it may leave a young one, not old enough to help itself, to pine with hunger, perhaps even to die of starvation.
It is difficult, if not impossible, to say anything of general application about the talents of monkeys, because these vary as widely as the animals themselves. Some traits are indeed common to all, but most of their characteristics vary considerably in the different species. A disposition which in one is scarcely observable is pronounced in another, a trait which is prominent here is sought for in vain there. But if we compare the different families, groups, and species together, we shall observe a surprising, because unsuspected gradation of talents and abilities. It is instructive to proceed in this way.
Fig. 43.—Common Marmoset or Ouistiti (Hapale Jacchus).
We must regard the graceful, little, clawed monkeys or marmosets of South and Central America as the least developed members of the monkey order. They have the same dentition as the higher monkeys, but they have flat nails only on the large toe, while on all the other toes and the fingers they have narrow claw-like nails, which place their hands and feet, or the former at any rate, on the level of paws. These outward features correspond to their mental endowments. Monkeyhood, we may say, has not reached its full development in the family of marmosets. Not only in form and colour, but in their carriage, in their whole character and behaviour, even in their voice, they remind us of the rodents. They seldom sit upright, and at the best are rather like squirrels than like other monkeys; they prefer to stand on all-fours with the body horizontal; they do not climb easily and freely, with hands and feet clasping the branch, like others of their order, but, sticking their claws into it, they press close to it and glide along, not of course slowly or unskilfully, but rather as rodents than as monkeys. Their voice, too, is quite different from that of all the higher monkeys; it is a whistling in high notes which now reminds one of the chirping of a bird, now of the squeaking of rats and mice, but perhaps most of all of the sound made by the guinea-pig. Their behaviour generally is decidedly rodent-like. They exhibit the uneasiness and restlessness, the curiosity, shyness, and timidity, the inconstancy of squirrels. Their little heads only remain a few seconds in one position, and their dark eyes are directed now towards this object now towards that, but always hastily, and obviously without comprehension, although they seem to look out on the world intelligently enough. Every action they perform shows their slight power of judgment. As if without will, they act on the suggestion of the moment; they forget what they have just been doing as soon as their attention is diverted, and they prove just as fickle in the expression of their contentment as of their displeasure. At one moment they are good-humoured, apparently quite satisfied with their lot, perhaps grateful for caresses from a friendly hand, the next they are snarling at their keeper just as if their lives were in danger, showing their teeth, and trying to bite. As irritable and excitable as all monkeys and rodents, they yet lack the individuality which every higher monkey exhibits, for one acts exactly like another, without originality and always in a somewhat commonplace fashion. They have all the attributes of cowards—the complaining voice, the reluctance to adapt themselves to the inevitable, the whining acceptance of all circumstances, the morbidly suspicious habit of finding in every action of another creature some hostility to themselves, the desire to swagger while in reality they carefully keep out of the way of every real or supposed danger, and an incapacity either to make resolutions or to carry them out. Just because there is so little of the true monkey about them they are preferred by women and despised by men.
On a decidedly higher level stand the Broad-nosed or New-World monkeys, which also inhabit America, though even in these, the full character of the true monkey is not attained. The dentition numbers a molar more on each side of the jaws than in the higher apes, thus there are thirty-six teeth instead of thirty-two; all the fingers and toes have flat nails; the body seems more slender than it is, because the limbs are very long; the tail is used, in many cases, as a powerful grasping-organ. The one-sidedness of their development is very characteristic. Exclusively arboreal like the marmosets, they are awkward, even clumsy when away from the branches of the trees. On the ground their gait is extremely ungainly, uncertain, and tottering, particularly in those species which have a prehensile tail, but even their climbing does not come at all near that of the Old-World monkeys. For increase of the number of organs of locomotion does not necessarily result in increased power, still less in greater variety of movement; on the contrary, it often means one-sidedness, and it certainly does so in the case of the New-World monkeys. Their prehensile tail is not to them a fifth, but a first hand, used in hanging or fixing the body, in lifting things or dragging them along, and so on; but it does not make their movements more rapid or free, it adds to safety but not to agility. Thanks to the constant use of the tail, its owner never runs a risk of falling from the lofty branches—safe because high—to the dangerous ground beneath, but neither is he able to make any free or daring movement. Slowly he sends his prehensile tail in advance of every step, always catching hold with it first, and only then letting go with hands or feet. Thus he binds himself to the branch rather than climbs upon it, and never thinks of attempting a leap whose success is in the least doubtful. In this constant carefulness for his own precious person the broad-nosed monkey impresses one not so much with his prudence as with his slowness, and it is noteworthy that the whole character of the New-World monkeys bears this out. Their voice is not quite so monotonous as that of the marmosets, but it is unpleasant, not to say tiresome. It runs through many grades, from a whine to a roar, but it has, invariably, a mournful character, and the whole demeanour of the animal, when it cries, is pessimistic. After a cool, dewy night, the morning sun shines warm and golden through the trees, and a thousand-toned song of joy and greeting leaps forth in welcome from a million throats. The howlers prepare to offer their tribute of praise also. But how? They have climbed to the dry top branches of a giant tree which rises high above its fellows, have fastened themselves securely by their tails, and are warming themselves comfortably in the sunshine. Then a feeling of well-being moves them to raise their voices. One of them, distinguished, it is said, by a specially high, shrill voice, acts as leader, and, looking fixedly at his companions, begins to chant. The rest look at him with the same motionless vacant stare and join in; and frightfully their song resounds through the forest, now grunting, now howling, now snarling, now rattling, as if all the beasts of the forest were waging deadly warfare. The astounding performance begins with a bellowing solo; these bellowings become louder, follow each other more rapidly as the excitement of the singer—which is probably present though not apparent—increases and spreads to other members of the community; then they change into howling and roaring, and they end as they began. If one looks at the long-bearded, serious singers one can scarcely keep from smiling; but soon the indescribable discords they produce become as wearisome as their monotonous climbing, or rather creeping movements. What one does another imitates, but whatever they may do, howsoever they may act, their behaviour is always monotonous. Very much like these, or not essentially different, are all the monkeys with prehensile tails; though a few prominent members of the family, the Capuchin monkeys for instance, are rather more free and independent. In general, they are as heavy mentally as physically—usually very gentle, good-natured, and confiding, but stupid, peevish, fretful, and some of them obstinate, malicious, and spiteful. They thus stand considerably higher than the marmosets, but far below the Old-World monkeys. Probably it would hardly be doing them injustice to say that they possess the bad qualities without the good qualities of their Old-World cousins. Their gentleness and good-nature—apart from the fact that these are not found in all the species, do not in the least make up for their general lack of enterprise, boldness, cheerfulness, liveliness, and decision, circumspection and ingenuity—qualities which place the Old-World monkeys so high—while their everlasting whining and complaining counterbalance, in our eyes, all the qualities which might attract us to them.
Fig. 44.—Red Howling Monkeys (Mycetes seniculus).
The monkeys of the Old World, like those of the New, fall into two groups to which the rank of families may perhaps be granted, although the dentition is essentially alike in both. We call the one type Dog-like, the other Man-like, and we may go the length of saying that the former teach us what monkeyhood really is, while the latter rise above it. For the first group especially, my opening remarks hold good. Among them we find monkeys beautiful and ugly, attractive and repulsive, lively and serious, good-natured and malicious. Really misshapen monkeys there are none, for we must admit that even those which appear to us ugly are symmetrical in form. Yet some of them are, in many respects, odd-looking creatures. Their chief external characteristics are, the more or less protruding muzzle, reminding one of a dog’s, the proportionately short arms, the tail, always present though often shortened to a mere stump, the more or less developed ischial callosities, and the cheek-pouches present in most species. The dentition includes the usual number of thirty-two teeth arranged in an unbroken series. They occur in all three continents of the Old World, and are most numerous in Africa.
Their endowments and characteristics place them far above the marmosets and New-World monkeys. They usually walk very well, though some of them hobble along in a comical fashion; they are able, without difficulty, to stand on their legs alone, thus raising themselves to their full height, and in that position they can walk more or less easily. They climb well under all circumstances, though some do so only among trees, others among the rocks; some of them are also excellent swimmers. The climbing of the arboreal species is almost like flight, if I may so speak—for their skill among the branches surpasses all expectation. Leaps of from eight to ten yards are to them quite possible achievements. From the topmost boughs of a tree they leap to a lower one, which is forcibly bent downwards by the shock, from this at the moment of rebound they give themselves a strong impetus, and, stretching tail and hind-legs out behind them to steer their course, shoot like an arrow through the air. The branch of a tree, even if it be covered with the sharpest thorns, is to them a well-made road, a climbing plant is a path or a ladder according to its position. They climb forwards or backwards, on the under or upper side of a branch; in leaping or falling they catch a thin twig with one hand, and remain hanging as long as they please in every imaginable position; then they climb leisurely on the branch, and proceed on their way as coolly as if they were on level ground. If the hand misses the desired twig it is caught by the foot; if it breaks under the sudden shock they catch in falling at a second, a third, and if all break they spring to the ground, no matter the distance, and climb up again by the first available trunk or climbing-plant. Compared with the clinging and creeping of their relatives in the New World theirs appears, and really is, a free, unfettered motion which surmounts all obstacles. The former are blunderers, the latter finished artists; the former slaves of the trees, the latter lords of the branches.
Their voice is as highly developed as their power of movement. Theirs is no chirping or whistling, no whining or howling; on the contrary, they utter many different sounds expressing the mood of the moment, and quite intelligible even to us. Comfort or discomfort, desire or satisfaction, good-will or ill-will, love or hate, indifference or anger, joy or pain, confidence or mistrust, attraction or repugnance, affection or dislike, submissiveness or defiance, but above all any sudden emotion, such as fear or horror, find adequate expression, comparatively limited though the voice may be.[70]
What we may call their mental endowments correspond to their physical powers. It may be well to emphasize that the hand, which among them first attains to full development, gives them a considerable advantage over other animals, and makes some of their actions appear more remarkable than they really are; for instance, it renders them capable of many skilful devices which would be impossible to a dog and to any of those animals which we are wont to reckon among the cleverest of mammals. A high degree of deliberateness must be conceded to them. Their excellent memory treasures up the most various impressions, and their discriminating intelligence makes these a store of experiences, which are turned to good account as opportunity offers. Thus they act with full consciousness of what they are doing, according to circumstances, and not as impotent slaves of a power outside themselves, but with independence, freedom, and variety, cunningly seizing every advantage, and making use of every expedient which they believe will further their end. They distinguish between cause and effect, and attempt to achieve or nullify the latter by applying or removing the former. They not only recognize what benefits or injures them, but they know whether they do right or wrong, judging either from the standard of some loved one, or that of some master.[71] It is not blind chance, but a recognition of what is profitable that regulates and guides their actions, makes them submit to the judgment of the most capable, moves them to live and act together, teaches them to form communities for the weal or woe of the individual, to share joy and sorrow, good fortune and misfortune, safety and danger, plenty and scarcity,—in other words, to form an alliance based on reciprocity—which teaches them to employ powers and means not theirs by inheritance, and, finally, presses into their hands weapons with which Nature did not supply them. Passions of all kinds, it is true, often gain a victory over their circumspection; but these very passions are proof of the liveliness of their sensations, or, what comes to the same thing, of their mental activity. They are as susceptible as children, as irritable as weak-minded men, and thus very sensitive to every kind of treatment they may receive; to love and dislike, to encouraging praise and chilling blame, to pleasant flattery and wounding ridicule, to caresses and chastisement. Nevertheless they are not so easily managed, still less so easily trained to anything, as a dog or any other clever domestic animal, for they are self-willed in a high degree, and almost as conceited as human beings. They learn without difficulty, but only when they wish to, and by no means always when they ought to, for their self-conceit rebels against any submission which they do not see to be to their own advantage. They are quite aware that they are liable to be punished, and may loudly express their disapprobation of the expected chastisement beforehand, yet still refuse to do what is required of them; while, on the other hand, they will execute it willingly and with the liveliest expressions of understanding, when the task happens to suit their humour. Whoever ventures to doubt their self-esteem has only to watch their way of treating other animals. Unless terrified by their strength and dangerousness, they invariably regard other animals as playthings, whether they tease them and play tricks upon them, or fondle them and load them with caresses.
Some examples, for which I myself can vouch, or which I know to be thoroughly authentic, may strengthen the assertions I have just made.
As I was travelling in Bogosland, on my first ride into the mountains I fell in with a large band of the Hamadryas baboons, referred to by Sheikh Kemal el Din Demiri in his narrative. Drying their streaming hair in the sunshine, they sat picturesquely grouped on the highest points of a cliff, and, on being greeted with rifle bullets, they beat an organized retreat and fled. Continuing my journey through the narrow, winding, rocky valley of the Mensa, I came upon them some time later, this time in the valley itself, just as they were preparing to ascend the rocky wall of the other side to seek safety from such annoying disturbances. A considerable number had already crossed the valley; the majority were in the act of crossing. Our dogs, beautiful, slender greyhounds, accustomed to fight successfully with hyænas and other beasts of prey, rushed towards the baboons, which, from a distance, looked more like beasts of prey than monkeys, and drove them hastily up the precipices to right and left. But only the females took to flight; the males, on the other hand, turned to face the dogs, growled, beat the ground fiercely with their hands, opened their mouths wide and showed their glittering teeth, and looked at their adversaries so furiously and maliciously that the hounds, usually bold and battle-hardened, shrank back discomfited, and almost timidly sought safety beside us. Before we had succeeded in stirring them up to show fight, the position of the monkeys had changed considerably, and when the dogs charged a second time nearly all the herd were in safety. But one little monkey about half a year old had been left behind. It shrieked loudly as the dogs rushed towards it, but succeeded in gaining the top of a rock before they had arrived. Our dogs placed themselves cleverly, so as to cut off its retreat, and we hoped that we might be able to catch it. But that was not to be. Proudly and with dignity, without hurrying in the least, or paying any heed to us, an old male stepped down from the security of the rocks towards the hard-pressed little one, walked towards the dogs without betraying the slightest fear, held them in check with glances, gestures, and quite intelligible sounds, slowly climbed the rock, picked up the baby-monkey, and retreated with it, before we could reach the spot, and without the visibly disconcerted dogs making the slightest attempt to prevent him. While the patriarch of the troop performed this brave and self-sacrificing deed, the other members, densely crowded on the cliff, uttered sounds which I had never before heard from baboons. Old and young, males and females, roared, screeched, snarled, and bellowed all together, so that one would have thought they were struggling with leopards or other dangerous beasts. I learned later that this was the monkeys’ battle-cry: it was intended obviously to intimidate us and the dogs, possibly also to encourage the brave old giant, who was running into such evident danger before their eyes.[72]
Fig. 45.—Old Baboon Rescuing Young One.
A few days later I learned by experience that these self-reliant animals are a match even for men. On our return from the Bogosland, we fell in with a large herd, possibly the same one, and we opened fire upon them from the valley with seven double rifles. Our shots had an indescribable effect. The same battle-cry which I had heard before rang out again, and, as if at the command of a general, they prepared for resistance. While the screaming females with the young ones fled in all haste over the crest of the rock beyond range of our guns, the adult males, casting furious glances, beating the ground with their hands, and barking rather than roaring, sprang upon projecting stones and ledges, looked down on the valley for a few moments, continually growling, snarling, or screaming, and then began to roll stones down upon us with so much vigour and adroitness that we immediately saw that our lives were in danger and took to flight. If it had not been possible for us to clamber up the opposite wall of the narrow valley, and so to escape the monkeys’ fire, we should have been utterly routed. The clever animals not only conducted their defence on a definite plan, but they acted in co-operation, striving for a common end, and exerting all their united strength to attain it. One of our number saw one monkey drag his stone up a tree that he might hurl it down with more effect; I myself saw two combining their strength to set a heavy stone a-rolling.
No animals but the higher apes adopt such means of defence, and no other male animal runs into danger to rescue a helpless young one of his species. Such traits must not be ignored, and cannot be misinterpreted, for they speak for themselves better and more loudly than all the sophistical analysis which refuses to admit that animals have intelligence and the power of spontaneous action.
That the dog-like monkeys recognize and distinguish between cause and effect can be certified by every unprejudiced observer. They open doors and windows, drawers, cupboards, and boxes, untie knots, and overcome other obstacles when they have once seen how to set about it; but they also invent means to attain similar ends. A female baboon, which I brought up in my family, got hold of a kitten with the intention of making a pet of it and mothering it, but was scratched by the terrified bundling. The monkey carefully examined the kitten’s paws, pressed the claws forward, looked at them from above, from beneath, and from the side, and then bit them off to secure herself against further scratches. My brother and I used to startle the same baboon by pouring a little heap of powder on the ground in front of her, and setting it alight by means of a piece of burning tinder. The sudden blazing up of the powder gave our baboon such a fright every time that she screamed loudly and sprang back as far as her tether would allow. After this trick had been played upon her several times in succession, she protected herself from further annoyance by beating the glowing tinder with her hand till the spark was extinguished, and then eating up the powder. In another case she conjured up fear and horror for herself. Like all monkeys without exception, she regarded creeping things, and above all snakes, with a boundless horror which was most amusing. We often teased her by putting a snake, live, dead, or stuffed, into a broad tin box, which was handed to her closed. After a time she knew the box and its contents perfectly, but her curiosity always mastered her, and she opened it every time, to run away screaming directly afterwards.
Not content with recognizing causes really present, this monkey, when she suffered any annoyance, sought for probable ones. Something or someone must bear the blame of her discomfort. Thus her anger was directed against the first person who came in sight. If she was chastised, she was not angry with her master and keeper, but with anyone else who was present during her punishment; such a one must have been the cause of the harsh treatment she received from her usually kind master. She had thus exactly the same suspicions as small-minded human beings are apt to have in like circumstances.
Notwithstanding her own extreme sensitiveness to any punishment, even if only threatened, and also to quizzing and teasing, the baboon in question could never refrain from tormenting, annoying, and even ill-treating other animals. Our crabbed old badger-dog was lying comfortably in the sun enjoying his mid-day nap. The baboon saw this, slipped quietly up to him, looked with a sly twinkle of her little eyes into the dog’s face to make sure that he was really asleep, then suddenly seized the sleeper’s tail and brought him back with a violent pull from dreamland to reality. The dog angrily rushed at the disturber of his peace to avenge the insult. But the monkey escaped the threatened punishment with a single leap over the advancing dog, and in the next instant she had seized the tail and repeated the outrage, obviously enjoying the powerlessness of her furious opponent, until the latter, almost beside himself with anger and excitement, unable even to bark, but gasping and foaming, tucked his tail between his legs and fled, leaving the enemy in possession of the field. If the baboon could have laughed, the parallel between her behaviour and that of a mischievous boy would have been complete. As it was, the scorn and ridicule with which the vanquished dog was overwhelmed were intelligible enough. The baboon herself took teasing very ill, would even become furious if laughed at by an unprivileged person, and never omitted to take her revenge on the first opportunity, even if that should not occur for weeks. But then she was a monkey, and felt herself such, therefore regarded a dog as a creature of a lower order, her insolence towards which was as pardonable as that of every other creature towards herself was reprehensible and worthy of punishment.
Of this self-esteem, or rather over-esteem, the dog-like monkeys give daily proofs to every careful observer. The baboon in question, like all monkeys, was exceedingly fond of pets, and in particular of a long-tailed monkey which shared her cage, and could be trusted even out of the cage with it, because it was always by the baboon’s side as if under a charm. It slept in her arms, and obeyed her slavishly. The baboon expected such obedience and took it as a matter of course; but she demanded the most absolute subjection at meal-times. While the good-natured and obedient long-tailed monkey unresistingly allowed its foster-mother to pick out all the titbits, the latter only left for the little one what was absolutely necessary, and if it did succeed in storing something in its pouches, simply opened these again and appropriated the contents to her own use.
Unbounded as is the arrogance and self-esteem of the dog-like monkeys, they are thoroughly well aware when they have done wrong, that is, have done something deserving of punishment. Schomburgk gives a most instructive example of this. In the Zoological division of the Botanic Gardens at Adelaide an old sacred macaque lived in a cage with two younger members of the same species, over whom, as a matter of course, he ruled despotically. One day, irritated by something or other, he attacked his keeper and wounded him dangerously by biting through an artery on the wrist. For this Schomburgk condemned him to death, and commissioned another keeper to carry out the sentence by shooting him. The monkeys were quite accustomed to fire-arms, which were often used in the gardens for killing injurious animals, and though they knew their effect they were not disquieted in the least when these were brought into their immediate neighbourhood. The day after the misconduct of the old tyrant the two young monkeys remained quietly at the food-trough on the appearance of the keeper intrusted with the execution of their comrade, but the criminal himself fled with the utmost haste into his sleeping cage, and no amount of coaxing could entice him out of it. An attempt was made to lure him forth by setting down food; but he did what he had never done before, saw his two subjects eat up the dainty fare and did not venture to take part in the meal. Not till the suspected keeper had retired did he venture to creep forth, seize a few crumbs, and retire in fear and trembling to his hiding-place again. At length he was persuaded to come out a second time, and the door of his retreat was closed. When he saw the keeper with his weapon approaching, he knew that he was lost. Frantically he threw himself on the door of his sleeping cage to open it if possible, and not succeeding he rushed through the whole cage examining every corner and space in the hope of finding a means of escape; at last, seeing that there was no possibility of flight, he threw himself despairingly on the ground and surrendered himself, his whole body trembling and shuddering, to the fate which overtook him a moment later.
Fig. 46.—Macaque or Bonnet-monkey (Macacus sinicus) and Snake.
It must be admitted that no mammal of any other order, not even the dog, who has associated with us, and been educated, and, strictly speaking, formed by us for thousands of years, acts in the manner described, or exhibits such a high degree of intelligence. And yet a wide gulf lies between the dog-like monkeys and the anthropoid apes, of which I have said that they rise even above the average of monkeyhood.
By the anthropoid apes we understand those which in their structure most resemble man, but are externally distinguished from him by the very prominent canine teeth, the relatively long arms and short legs, the structure of the hand, the ischial callosities present in some species, and the hairy covering of the body. They inhabit the tropical countries of Asia and Africa (the former being richer in species), and they are divided into three families, of which one is confined to Africa. Each of these families embraces only a few species, but probably we do not know nearly all of them as yet.
The structure of the anthropoid apes points to an arboreal life; they are most excellent climbers, though by no means slaves to the tree any more than the langurs, long-tailed monkeys, and macaques. Their movements, however, both among the branches and on the ground, are quite different from those of all other monkeys. In climbing up a tree, particularly a smooth trunk without branches, they take the same position as a man would do, but, thanks to their long arms and short legs, they make much more rapid progress than the most expert human climber; and when they have reached the branches they put every gymnast to shame by the variety and security of their movements. With outstretched arms they seize one branch, with the feet they clasp a parallel one, about half their height lower down, and, using the upper branch as a rail, they walk along the lower one so quickly, though without the least sign of effort, that a man walking underneath must exert himself vigorously to keep pace with them. On reaching the end of the branch, they seize any available bough or twig of the next tree and proceed on their way in the same manner, with undiminished speed, yet without hurry. In ascending they seize hold of any branch strong enough to bear their weight, and swing themselves upwards with equal ease whether they are holding the branch with both hands or only with one; in descending, they let themselves hang with both arms and search about for a new foothold. Sometimes they amuse themselves by swinging freely for some minutes; sometimes, clasping a branch with arms and feet, they walk, for a change, on its lower surface; in short, they assume every imaginable position, and execute every possible movement. Quite unrivalled masters of climbing are the long-armed apes or gibbons, anthropoid apes with arms so disproportionately long that, when outstretched, they measure thrice as much as their upright bodies. With incomparable speed and security they climb up a tree or bamboo-stem, set it, or a suitable branch swinging, and on its rebound spring over spaces of from eight to twelve yards, so lightly and swiftly, that they seem to fly like a shot arrow or an alighting bird. They are also able to alter the direction of a leap while actually springing, or to cut it suddenly short by seizing a branch and clinging to it—swinging, rocking, and finally climbing up by it, either to rest for a little, or to begin the old game anew. Sometimes they spring through the air in this manner three, four, or five times in succession, so that one almost forgets that they are subject to the law of gravity. Their walking is as awkward as their climbing is excellent. Other anthropoid apes are able to traverse a considerable distance in an upright position—that is, on their feet alone, without special difficulty, though when in haste they always fall on all-fours, resting on the inturned knuckles of the fingers and the outer edges of the feet, and throwing the body laboriously and clumsily forward between the extended arms. But the long-armed apes move in an upright position only in cases of extreme necessity, and then they hop rather than walk. When the distance to be covered is a short one they raise themselves to their full height, and preserving their balance by extending their arms, now more, now less, spread out the great toes as far as possible, and patter pitiably along with short, quick steps. Their power of movement must therefore be characterized as one-sided, for their superiority over the other anthropoid apes in climbing does not counterbalance their helplessness on the ground.
Fig. 47.—The Hoolock (Hylobates leuciscus), one of the Gibbons.
The voice-power of the anthropoid apes is very noteworthy. We find that the most active and agile species have the loudest voices, while those of the more widely developed, though less nimble, anthropoid apes are capable of greater variety of expression. I do not say too much when I assert that I have never heard the voice of any mammal—man, of course, always excepted—which was more full-toned and sonorous than that of a long-armed ape which I observed in captivity. I was first astonished, then delighted, with these deep notes, uttered with full strength, and by no means disagreeable, because perfectly clear and well-rounded. In one species the ringing call, which I should describe as a song rather than a cry, begins on the key-note E, ascends and descends in semitones through the chromatic scale for a full octave, sometimes ending with a shrill cry, which seems to be uttered with the animal’s whole strength. The key-note remains audible throughout, and serves as a grace-note to each of the succeeding ones, which, in ascending the scale, follow each other more and more slowly, in descending more and more quickly, at last with extreme rapidity, but always with perfect regularity. The notes of some species of the group are said to be less clear, but all are so loud that, in the open air, one can hear them distinctly at a distance of an English mile. The same correlation between agility of motion and voice-power can be observed in other anthropoid apes. The slow-moving, awkward-looking orang-utan utters, as far as I know, only a strong, deep throat sound; the lively, active, sprightly chimpanzee, with only a few notes, understands so well how to give them variety of emphasis and intelligible expression that one is tempted to concede to him the power of speech. He does not indeed speak with words, but with sounds, and even syllables, of the constancy of whose meaning the observer who has much acquaintance with the chimpanzee can have no doubt. Other anthropoid apes of the same family are probably not far behind him in this respect.
Anyone who wishes to learn to what a height the mental qualities of a monkey may reach must select the chimpanzee or one of his nearest relatives for observation, and must associate closely with it for a lengthened period, as I have done. He will then discover with wonder and amazement, perhaps with slight horror, how much the gulf between man and beast can be diminished. The other anthropoid apes, too, are highly gifted creatures; they, too, surpass all other monkeys in this respect; but the talents of the long-armed gibbons or the orang-utans do not attain to the same universally intelligible expression—I may say, the same impressiveness, as those of the chimpanzees and their relatives. They—the pongos, the gorilla, the tschiego, and the chimpanzee—cannot be treated as animals, but must be associated with as men, if their mental powers are to be known and appreciated. Their intelligence is not far behind that of a rude, undisciplined, uneducated human being. They are, and remain animals, but they behave so humanly that one can almost lose sight of the beast.
For years in succession I have kept chimpanzees, have observed them closely and, as far as possible, without prejudice, have associated intimately with them, taken them into my family, brought them up as playmates for my children, let them eat at my table, taught and trained them, waited upon them in sickness, and not forsaken them in the hour of death. I have therefore a right to believe that I know them as well as anyone, and that I am justified in pronouncing an authoritative opinion. For these reasons I select the chimpanzee, in order to show to what height the mental power of an animal may rise.
The chimpanzee is not only one of the cleverest of all creatures, he is a being capable of deliberation and judgment. Everything he does is done consciously and deliberately. He imitates, but he does so with intelligence and on due consideration; he allows himself to be taught, and learns. He knows himself and his surroundings, and he can appreciate his position. In association with man he yields submission to superior intelligence; in his relations with animals he exhibits a self-conceit similar to our own. What is merely hinted at among other apes is quite pronounced in him. He regards himself as better, as standing higher than other animals, even other monkeys; he rates even human beings exactly according to their standing; thus he treats children quite differently from grown-up people; the latter he respects, the former he looks upon as comrades and equals. He shows an interest in animals with which he can form no friendship or other tie, and also in objects which have no connection with his natural wants; for he is not merely inquisitive, he is greedy of knowledge; an object which has attracted his attention increases in value in his eyes when he has found out its use. He can draw conclusions, can reason from one to another, and apply the results of experience to new circumstances, is cunning, even wily, has flashes of wit, and indulges in practical jokes, exhibits humours and moods, is entertained in one company and bored in another, enters into the spirit of some jokes and scorns others, is self-willed but not stubborn, good-natured but not wanting in independence. He expresses his emotions like a human being. When in a gay mood he smirks with satisfaction, when depressed his face is drawn into wrinkles which speak for themselves, and he gives utterance to his grief by plaintive sounds. In sickness he behaves like one in despair, distorts his face, screams, throws himself on his back, beats with his hands and feet, and tears his hair. To a friendly voice he responds with sounds expressive of pleasure, to chiding with cries of distress. He is active and busy from morning till late in the evening, seeks constant occupation, and when he comes to an end of his usual employments he invents new ones, even if it should only be slapping his feet with his hands, or knocking against hollow boards, and thus producing sounds which give him evident pleasure. In a room he occupies himself with carefully examining everything that attracts his attention, opens drawers and rummages among their contents, opens the stove door to look at the fire and shuts it again, holds a key properly, stands before the mirror and amuses himself with the reflection of his own gestures and grimaces, uses brush and duster as he has been taught, puts on blankets and clothing, and so on.
Fig. 48.—Chimpanzee (Troglodytes niger).
His acuteness of observation is strikingly proved by his almost unfailingly correct judgment of persons. Not only does he recognize and distinguish his friends from other people, but well-meaning from evil-intentioned persons so thoroughly that the keeper of a chimpanzee was convinced that anyone with whom his protégé refused to make friends was really a good-for-nothing or a scoundrel. A thorough but accomplished hypocrite who deceived me and others was all along a horror to our chimpanzee, just as if he had seen through the red-headed rascal from the first. Every chimpanzee who has been much in human society likes best to be a member of a family circle. There he behaves as though he felt himself among equals. He carefully observes the manners and customs of the house, notices immediately whether he is being watched or not, and does in the former case what he ought to, in the latter what pleases him. In contrast to other monkeys, he learns very easily and with real eagerness whatever is taught to him, as, for instance, to sit upright at table, to eat with knife, fork, and spoon, to drink from a glass or cup, to stir the sugar in his tea, to touch glasses with his neighbour, to use his napkin, and so on; with equal case he becomes accustomed to clothing, beds, and blankets; without great difficulty he gains after a time an understanding of human speech which far surpasses that of a well-trained dog, for he follows not merely the emphasis but the meaning of words, and executes commissions or obeys commands with equal correctness. Exceedingly appreciative of every caress and flattery, and even of praise, he is equally sensitive to unfriendly treatment or blame; he is also capable of deep gratitude, and he expresses it by shaking hands or kissing without being asked to do so. He evinces a special fondness for children. Being neither spiteful nor vicious, he treats children with great friendliness as long as they do not tease him, and behaves to helpless infants with really touching tenderness, though towards others of his own species, monkeys of a different species, and animals generally, he is often rough and harsh. I lay special stress on this characteristic, which I have observed in every chimpanzee I have brought up, because it seems to prove that the chimpanzee recognizes and respects the human even in the youngest child.
The behaviour of a sick and suffering anthropoid ape is most touching. Begging piteously, almost humanly, he looks into his keeper’s face, receives every attempt to help him with warm thanks, and soon looks upon the physician as a benefactor, holds out his arm to him, or stretches out his tongue as soon as he is told, and even does so of his own accord after a few visits from the physician. He swallows medicine readily, submits even to a surgical operation, and, in a word, behaves very like a human patient in similar circumstances. As his end approaches he becomes more gentle, the animal in him is lost sight of, and the nobler traits of his character stand out prominently.
The chimpanzee which I kept longest, and with the help of an intelligent, animal-loving keeper educated most carefully, was taken ill with inflammation of the lungs, accompanied by suppuration of the lymphatic glands of the neck. Surgical treatment of the glands was found necessary. Two surgeons, friends of mine who were on good terms with the chimpanzee, undertook to open the tumour on the neck, the more readily that the monkey believed that to be the cause of his suffering, and continually guided the surgeon’s hand towards it. But how was the necessary operation in such a dangerous spot to be performed without imperilling the monkey’s life? Anæsthetics were out of the question because of the lung disease, and the attempt to have the chimpanzee held down by several strong men had to be abandoned because of his intense excitement, and the strenuous resistance he offered. But where force failed persuasion succeeded. When the monkey was quieted and reassured by the coaxing and endearments of his keeper, he allowed a further examination of the swelling, and even submitted, without twitching an eyelid or uttering a complaint, to the use of the knife, and other painful treatment, including the emptying of the opened tumour. When this was done the distressingly laboured breathing became instantly less oppressive, an unmistakable expression of relief passed over the sufferer’s face, and he gratefully held out his hand to both physicians, and embraced his keeper, without having been asked to do either.
Unfortunately, the removal of the one trouble did not succeed in saving the animal’s life. The neck wound healed, but the inflammation of the lungs increased and killed him. He died fully conscious, gently and peacefully, not as an animal, but as a man dies.
These are features of the character and conduct of anthropoid apes which can neither be misunderstood nor cavilled at. When one considers that they can be observed in all anthropoids not yet full-grown but beyond the stage of childhood, one must undoubtedly grant those animals a very high place. For the opinion expressed by some one incapable observer, and thoughtlessly repeated by hundreds, that the monkey loses mental power with increasing age, that he retrogrades and becomes stupid, is completely false, and is disproved by every ape which is observed carefully, and without prejudice, from youth to age.[73] Even if we knew nothing more about full-grown anthropoids than that they erect shelters resembling huts rather than nests, in which to pass a single night, and that they drum on hollow trees for amusement, it would be enough to lead us to the same conclusion as we have arrived at by observation of the young members of this group; that is, that they must be regarded as by far the most gifted and highly developed of animals, and as our nearest relatives.
And the ape question? I might say that I have just answered it in what I have said; but I have no hesitation in expressing a more definite opinion.
Everyone must admit that man is not the representative of a new order of being, but is simply a member of the animal kingdom, and every unprejudiced person will also describe apes as the creatures most resembling man. If we compare them with one another, and then with man, the conviction is forced upon us, however we may strive against it, that there is a greater difference between the marmosets and the anthropoid apes than between the latter group and man. Zoologically, therefore, one cannot even relegate the apes and man to different orders of the highest class of animals. This has indeed been done, and is still done, man being classed as two-handed and monkeys as four-handed animals, but this leaves the most important aid to the classification of a mammal, the dentition, out of the question. For the dentition of man and monkeys is so essentially similar that it points imperatively to the necessity of placing the two types together. Nor is the distinction between two-handed and four-handed tenable, for although as regards the structure of hands and feet man and monkeys are certainly different, the difference does not imply any opposition; and the monkeys are just as much two-handed as we are. If we keep to the basis of classification adhered to without exception elsewhere, we are forced to place both in one order. I have given to it the name Hochtiere.
But though the characteristics which belong to all the higher animals as members of one order correspond thus accurately, a closer comparison reveals differences between man and apes which absolutely forbid a fusion of the two groups such as has been attempted in modern times. The symmetry of form, the comparative shortness of the arms, the breadth and mobility of the hands, the length and strength of the legs, as well as the flatness of the feet, the naked skin, and the less-developed canine teeth are external marks of man which must not be under-estimated, for they are important enough to justify putting him and the apes in different families, perhaps even different sub-orders. If, in addition, we take man’s endowments into due consideration, compare his movements, his articulate speech, his mental capacities with the corresponding gifts in the ape, the need for insisting on the boundaries between the two is confirmed.
Blind disciples of the Doctrine of Descent, as Darwin founded it and others developed it, do indeed cross these boundaries without hesitation, but they cannot possibly be regarded as giving a carefully thought-out and authoritative judgment on the actual state of the case. Satisfactory, not to say probable, as this doctrine is, it has not yet risen above the level of an ingenious hypothesis; and incontrovertible evidence for the correctness of this hypothesis has not yet been produced. Variation within the limits of species and breed can be proved, can even be brought about; but transformation of one species into another cannot be established in any case. As long as this is so we are justified in regarding man and apes as creatures of different nature, and disputing the descent of one from the other. No attempt to discover or establish a common ancestor, no undertaking to draw up a pedigree for man, alters this in the slightest; for true natural science is not satisfied with interpretative theories, it demands proofs; it does not want to believe, but to know.[74]
So we may without scruple give the apes the place in the scale of being which unprejudiced investigation points out. We may look upon them as the animals most resembling ourselves, and as our nearest relatives in the zoological sense; anything more than this we must deny. Much that is characteristic of man is to be found in the apes also; but a wide gulf still remains between them and true humanity. Physically and mentally they have many of the characteristics of man, but by no means all.