“This people,” I asked—“what do they know about God?”
“They know no more than men do,” was the answer, “except that they know they know nothing. They know that the veil is not lifted. It is not that for which they seek—life is their task, and life only; to behold its endless fruition; to dwell in the beauty of it, to wield power of it; to toil at its whirling loom, to build up palaces of music from it. Ah, my brother, why have you never lived a symphony?”
“These people have no physical life?” I asked.
“Assuredly, they have,” was his answer, “it is a life which does not enter their consciousness—any more than, for instance, the beating of your heart and the renewing of your tissues. They have attained to mastery over the world of matter. They temper the seasons to their wish; disease and ill-health they have banished entirely; and understanding the ways of Nature, they create their food at will.”
“And their society knows no rich and no poor? Their government?”
“They have no government,” he said, “their law is their inspiration.”
Until far into the night we sat talking; and then, early in the morning, as I went out upon the beach—I saw a ship standing in towards the shore! I recall, as if it were yesterday, how my heart leaped up, and with what an agony of uncertainty I stood waving a signal.
And then I rushed to see my brother, shouting the news aloud. Startled with his own thoughts, he gazed at me in perplexity.
“A ship has come!” I cried. “A ship!”
“A ship!” he echoed; and then with a sudden light: “Oh, I see!”