where; how awful a discovery to find the perfection of man even at the very beginning of existence; to find it in the formation of the first stone arrow; to find it in a Bushman drawing; to find it in China, in Fiji and in ancient Nineveh and in every place where man has left a memory of his creative activities. I saw so many things, and I could have chosen; very well, then, I will tell you that I do not know whether man is more perfect, more advanced or more attractive when shaping the first urn than when decorating a splendid Portland vase; I do not know which is more perfect: to be a cave-man, or to be an Englishman in the West End; I do not know which is the loftier and diviner art: to paint a portrait of Queen Victoria on canvas or the portrait of a penguin with one’s fingers in the air, as is done by the aborigines of Terra del Fuego. I tell you, this is a dreadful thing; dreadful is the relativity of culture and history; nowhere behind us or before us is there a point of rest, of an ideal, of the finish and perfection
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