The doctor and I had not forgotten that Thorwald still held in store for us a talk on the most important theme of all. We wondered why he did not give it to us, as he had many opportunities in those days of quiet pleasure. He seemed to take great delight in hearing from us everything we chose to tell, asking numerous questions which showed a growing knowledge of the earth and its inhabitants.
It was the doctor who finally inquired when we were going to hear what he had promised us.
“I suppose I have been waiting,” answered Thorwald, “for you to ask for it. I could listen to your talk a great deal longer with pleasure and profit. It is astonishing how closely your history matches ours up to your times. The period you have been describing to me as that in which you live corresponds with a similar age here. It was a time of great activity and rapid change, and one whose records make a deep impression on many of our writers, judging from the attention they give to it. It was an enviable time to live in, if you compare it with the previous ages, but chiefly on account of the promise it contained of the glorious day to come.
“Doctor, are you sure you desire to hear about the growth of Christianity in this world and the blessings it has brought us?”
“Most certainly,” answered my companion. “I want to learn all I can of your history and present condition, and, as religion seems to occupy a chief place in both, anything you may say on the subject will be listened to with delight.”
Perhaps Thorwald was a little disappointed because the doctor did not give a more personal reason; but he failed to show it if he was, and, after calling to Zenith to come and sit with us, he began:
“Fair shines the sun on this fair world. So shines the sun on other fair worlds. Its piercing rays dart out in all directions from the great glowing mass, and as they fly outward they lose in brilliancy and intensity every second. In eight minutes some of these rays are intercepted by the earth and find there an atmosphere well adapted to receive them. In twelve minutes some strike this world, and although they are less powerful than those that fall on the earth, the conditions here are favorable for their reception. At varying distances from the center other rays find other planets as ready to welcome them, no doubt, as ours are.
“As the sun is in the physical universe, so is the Sun of righteousness in the domain of the spirit. Infinite in power, wisdom, and love, he comes wherever there are souls to save, shedding light in every dark spot, bringing life and hope and comfort, and lifting men out of the darkness of sin up to a condition of peace and happiness. Many ages ago he came to this planet, and started into life those forces which have brought us to our present state. Then he came to the earth, and you are at this time beginning to feel more intensely the impulse of his mission.”
“Your illustration is a forcible one,” said the doctor, as Thorwald paused a moment, “and weakens my former position, which would make it necessary for me to believe that all the rays of the sun, except the few that fall on Mars and the earth, are lost. It seems to me now quite reasonable that some do their beneficent work on other planets also.”
“Yes,” answered Thorwald, “whenever they are ready to receive them. And now I hope to lead you to see that the same intelligence that made the sun and gave to its rays such power has been present as a personal force in this world, molding it to his use and raising up a people here for his service and glory.
“In the perfect plan of that omniscient being the advent of the Savior occurred at the most opportune moment. Deep in the heart of one nation, firmly grounded in their nature by ages of discipline and suffering, lay the belief in one only God. The other nations of the world, surfeited with sinful pleasure and worn out with a vain pursuit of happiness, were ready to abandon the gods of their imaginations. Some lofty souls among them, following intently every prompting of their better nature, had developed high characters, while of God’s peculiar people many pure hearts waited, with joyful expectancy, the coming of the promised Savior.
“He came, the lowly, patient one, and, although the world was made by him, it knew him not. The greatest event in the history of the globe passed almost without notice; but the seed was planted, and in God’s own time the growth began, which has filled our happy world with the perfect flower of Christianity.
“The religion which Jesus taught aimed to save the race. It was universal, not only as adapted to all nations, but as fitted to regenerate and perfect the whole nature of man—body, mind, and soul. It would take me too long to tell all the changes it wrought. It found the heart hard and unfeeling, and made it tender and loving. It found men filled with every evil passion and almost without a desire to be better, and it gave them a longing to be free from sin and pure in heart. It found the race in darkness and despair, and brought them hope and light and comfort. Above all, it attacked the demon of selfishness and gave men the promise that in time they should be entirely free from its power.
“Slowly the truths of Christianity spread. The missionary spirit was born and the gospel was carried to remote lands. It was ever God’s way to work through the agency of his creatures, whether these be brute forces or intelligent beings. And so through imperfect men the perfect rule of life made feeble progress. But as it was the work of the Spirit, there was never any danger, even in the darkest ages, that the gospel would not triumph over all the sin and degradation of the world, and lift men to a higher plane.
“For a long period the truth lay buried beneath ignorance and superstition. Then came an awakening, and men, with their minds more enlightened and their consciences quickened, began to catch something of the true spirit of the gospel. Christianity now became a dominant power. Under its benign sway civilization advanced, intelligence spread, and Christian nations outstripped all others and extended their power to every part of the globe.
“Soon the ameliorating influences of the gospel were felt on every hand. Government began to be administered with more regard for the interest of the governed, and men came to receive consideration simply because they were men. All the aggravated forms of oppression ceased under the newborn spirit of human brotherhood, a sentiment brought into the world by the founder of Christianity.
“This brings us, my friends, up to that intense age of which I have spoken before, and which you say you recognize as that corresponding with the time in which you are living on the earth. Let me state briefly the condition of some of our affairs of that period.
“The industrial world was in a ferment, as we have seen, and it was only in a general and impersonal way that the Christian religion shed its influence on the majority of the actors in that drama. Individuals, among both employers and workmen, had good impulses and indulged them as much as they could, and I am inclined to think this class was larger than most of our writers admit. But we read that the greater part were moved chiefly by motives of self-interest. Still, Christianity was a growing force among them, and they could not entirely escape its influence. They were born under its elevating power, and, even if they did not acknowledge its sway, they were quite different men from those who lived before Jesus began to preach the law of love. This remark will apply to all the people of that day who were born under Christian skies, and yet acknowledged no personal allegiance to the Savior. They were the unconscious heirs of a priceless inheritance.”
“I just want to say, Thorwald,” the doctor interrupted, “that I can accept that idea fully now, with respect to the people of the earth, though at one time I should not have been willing to do so.”
Thorwald smiled his answer, and without further reply continued:
“Let us look at the business situation. National and local governments had begun to extend their powers beyond what had before been considered legitimate. With one excuse or another they had taken out of private hands many branches of business, and there was a strong tendency toward a continuance of the policy. There was no difference in principle between carrying the mails and carrying freight and passengers, or between giving the people cheap water in their houses and furnishing them with cheap coal.
“It was acknowledged that there were certain things which the city or state could do better than private enterprise, and the difficulty was to decide where to draw the line. While this uncertainty existed in the minds of most people, there was a small but aggressive party who were in favor of not drawing the line at all, but of putting everything into the hands of the government. They would have had the people, in their corporate capacity as a nation, raise and distribute the products of the soil, do all the manufacturing and dispose of the goods to consumers, conduct all the trades and professions, and, in fact, carry on every kind of business necessary to the well-being of society.”
Of course, this woke up the doctor, whose practical mind could see nothing attractive in such an arrangement as that, and he was moved to say:
“I trust, Thorwald, that your ancestors did not adopt that crazy scheme as an experimental step in their development. But I beg your pardon for using such vigorous language without knowing whether they did or not.”
Thorwald smiled, as he answered:
“You are safe, Doctor. From actual experience we cannot tell what the result of such a trial would be, for the vast majority of the writers, and the people too, of the period were opposed to the plan, and no doubt with good reason.
“But I do not wonder that this idea had a fascination for some right-minded people, in the promise it gave of doing away with the evils arising from competition, to which I have before referred.”
Thorwald paused here, as if to invite one of us to speak, if he wanted to do so. I accepted, by saying:
“I wish you would tell us a little more on that subject. Competition is said to be the life of trade with us, an accepted principle of honest business. And yet you speak of it as something that should be done away with.”
“If you could know,” answered Thorwald, “how repugnant the idea is to us of the present day, you would understand how truly you have voiced my feelings.”
“I have no doubt,” I said, “that your experience has taught you much on the subject that we do not know, but this is the way it looks from our standpoint: There is born in us a passion for getting that which belongs to others, or that which others are trying to get. In some of us this instinct is developed more than in others, and some are unprincipled enough to indulge it unjustly; but let me ask you if it is wrong to follow the leadings of such a desire if we are strictly honest in all our dealings.”
“We might differ over the meaning of the phrase ‘strictly honest,’ but I will answer your question by saying it is certainly wrong.”
“But it seems to be a part of our very nature.”
“Do you offer that as a reason for its being right? I never heard you claim that human nature was perfect,” said Thorwald.
“Then,” I returned, “in our present state, with which you are now pretty well acquainted, is it not possible to carry the principles of Christianity into business?”
“To answer that as I should be obliged to do would make me appear to you too arbitrary, and so perhaps I had better let you find your own answer in the questions which I will ask you. Is not unselfishness one of the first principles of Christianity? Now, the very essence of competition is a regard for self-interest, with no room for thought about the interests of others. In an ideal state of society the rules of life given by Jesus are fully obeyed. In such a state, would a transaction be right where each person was trying to do what was best for himself, although it might be to the damage or loss of another? It might be called honest to own slaves, and probably in the history of the earth a great many sincere Christian people have owned them, but you have now reached that condition, I think, where you can see it is wrong. So your way of doing business may be honest, but in our more ideal state we see that it is not right. Our remote ancestors, through the various stages of our development, did a thousand things with clear consciences which we could not do now. I understand your situation perfectly, and am sure your race will outgrow its imperfections.”
I thanked Thorwald for his faith in us, and he resumed his narrative.
“In the age of which I am speaking,” he said, “the church was taking a prominent place in the world, but had not assumed the leading position which it afterward reached. Many nations were still without the light of the gospel, and even in nominal Christian lands the actual supporters of the church were in the minority. In the midst of much evil and many discouragements the church was trying to regenerate society, but it had a difficult task, partly on account of the great perversity of the human heart, and partly because the church itself was not free from the imperfections of the age. Its members represented all shades of spirituality, the great majority of them having but a faint appreciation of the glorious cause in which they had enlisted. They called themselves soldiers of the cross, but were so burdened with the ordinary but more pressing duties and occupations of life that they never dreamed of the grandeur of the service, nor of the brilliant deeds of which the church was soon to show itself capable.
“One chief hindrance to the growth of the church and to the spread of its influence was the spirit of division within itself. Theoretically, all believers, the world over, were one body, or church, but in point of fact there were many churches, and in some particulars they were quite sharply opposed to each other. This evil was in full force in that age, but there were signs in the air that it was not to remain forever a stumbling-block to the faith of the world.”
“We are afflicted in the same way,” said I, “and some of us are hopeful enough to look forward to a really united church. But many think it is a part of our nature to differ, and are not able to see how all can ever come to think alike. They say that if by a miracle all should be brought into one church, and then left to their own inclinations, in a short time there would be as many sects as there are now.”
“And so there would,” returned Thorwald, “with your present ways. Your imperfect nature must change under the softening influence of the gospel. The differences that cause such trouble come from each individual’s selfish regard for his own opinion. All must learn not only to respect but to embrace the opinions of each other when they are right opinions. Two streams may run in parallel channels forever if each persists in following strictly its own course. If one turns toward the other and the other turns away, they will still be kept apart; but let each turn toward the other, and how quickly they come together.”
I told Thorwald I could apply his illustration to our condition and we would try to profit by it.
“One of the promising features of the religious situation,” he continued, “was the good start the church had made in missionary work. In the zeal with which this was taken up it was quite a new departure for the church, for not long before this time good men believed that if God intended to save the heathen he would do it without any help from man. But now success had come in the work in sufficient measure to greatly encourage the faithful souls engaged in it.
“When I speak of zeal, however, you must understand that this quality was confined to a few people. Nearly all were only half-hearted Christians at the best, doing something, to be sure, but not at all alive to the grand opportunity of bringing the world to the feet of the Savior. Only here and there was one found who was ready to give himself unselfishly to the work, and the amount of money given to advance the cause of Christ, at home and abroad, was small indeed compared to that spent in luxurious living and hurtful indulgences.
“At the same time, it was an age of progress. The ordinary span of life was long enough to show improvement in many ways, and men, seeing the rapid advancement the world was making, took courage and looked forward more confidently for the dawn of a brighter day. Religion was beginning to be more of an every-day matter, and Christians were coming to a faint realization of the real value of the gospel in its adaptation to all the needs of men. Care for the body, better ways of living, and right conduct toward others were all taught, as well as duty to God, and society began to feel the benefit of such sensible teaching.”
We all hoped Mona’s affliction would prove temporary, but after a number of days had passed, and no improvement appeared, Thorwald had an expert anatomist come to the house and make an examination of the organs of her throat. Although this was a new way in which to apply his skill, as the Martians of that era were all physically perfect, he thought he might be able to discover the cause of the trouble. The result of this experiment was somewhat reassuring, for our scientist told us there was no defect of organ or injury to any part, closing his report with the remark that the case presented the greatest mystery of the kind he had ever encountered. My companion, the doctor, now expressed his opinion, which coincided with my own. This was, that Mona’s trouble was occasioned by the shock to her nervous system when she was plunged into the water, an element which she so much dreaded. Our good friends, including the expert, were utterly unable to understand the meaning of this theory. The remark that Zenith made was:
“Why, but for our friend, and others who pry into these things for us, we would never know we had any nerves.”
“Happy will our race be,” responded the doctor, “when it arrives at the same blissful ignorance.”
“Well,” continued Zenith, “if your opinion is the correct one, what have we to hope for in Mona’s case?”
“Unfortunately,” answered the doctor, “we have no experience to teach us what to expect. We can only hope with you that she may speedily recover her voice, which has seemed to form such a great part of her, and has given us all so much delight.”
Perhaps it was imagination, but it seemed to me that Mona’s behavior toward me was more affectionate than it had formerly been. She had told me before, to be sure, that she had loved me with all her heart, but in these latter days she appeared to seek my society more and to show other indications that her love was assuming more of the personal element for which I had once so assiduously sought. But how was it with myself? This question forced itself on me, one day, and I was a little startled to find that an answer did not spring up spontaneously. Was it possible that my love was becoming cold? I would not admit it. Just as the poor girl had lost her chief attraction, should I turn from her and forget all my former professions? On the first suspicion that such might possibly be my desire, I said it was a wicked thought and I should never let it be true. But even if I could not force my heart to remain faithful, no one should ever know it but myself.
A little more time elapsed and I discovered that, in spite of my brave resolutions, Mona, silent, was filling less and less of my thoughts, and that I was living on the precious memory of her lost voice. But this discovery did not shake my determination ever to be to Mona herself a true and faithful lover.
At this juncture I was sitting alone, one morning, going over in my mind the strange vicissitudes of my love affair, when, in a far-distant part of the house, I heard a sound which thrilled me. I stopped all motion and listened, my heart, however, trembling with the fear of a disappointment. The music, for it was sweet music to me, came nearer, and now I could not be mistaken. What joy filled my heart! How impossible to forget that voice! I sat still and let it come. She evidently knew where I was and was coming to find me, pouring forth her heart in the way she knew I adored. Where now were my fears that my heart was growing cold toward her? Could it be possible that I had ever doubted my affection for her since I first heard her sing? Nearer it comes, filling my ears now with its familiar melody, a song without words but full of meaning for one who hears aright. She is guided true by the lamp of love and is now in the next room. I cannot wait, but interrupt her song with this cry:
“Come to me, my love, come quickly. I know your voice and the meaning of your song, and my heart responds to yours.”
The strain continues, and soon a form appears in the doorway. I spring from my seat and start to meet it, but fall back almost immediately in confusion.
“Oh, Avis,” I exclaimed with vexation, “I thought you were Mona again. I supposed you were on the other side of the world.”
“I was, but I have come back to sing for you. I heard poor Mona had lost her voice and I wanted to do what I could to fill her place. But I fear you are not pleased with me.”
“My dear friend,” I replied, “I beg your pardon for the abrupt manner in which I received you. I thought Mona had suddenly recovered her voice and was coming in the fullness of her joy to tell me about it, and you can imagine my disappointment when I discovered my mistake. But now I assure you I am glad to have your sympathy and delighted to know that you are to be near me. Please go on with the song which I so rudely interrupted, and let me hear your voice as often as possible. It is exceedingly fortunate for me to have you here while Mona is recovering. Will you stay till she can sing again, or do you think it is too selfish in me to make such a request?”
Instead of answering me, Avis began to sing again, and in a twinkling I had forgotten my question and everything else in the enjoyment of the moment.
I now wanted little to make me supremely happy. There was Mona herself, with her exquisite beauty and friendly manner, and there was Mona’s voice in the mouth of one who liked me enough to go half around the world to entertain me. And, if the truth must be told, my heart inclined more and more toward the voice. This was a startling truth indeed when it first fell upon me, and I fully determined that no one else should know it. Mona should never discover that I loved her less because she could not sing, and Avis should never know that her marvelous song was beginning to make the singer dear to me.
Whenever I found myself alone I could think of nothing but this perplexing subject. As I dwelt upon my situation, I told myself I must be careful, and avoid getting into trouble. Mona was becoming more and more tender toward me every day, and now Avis had come, unconsciously storming the seat of my affections with Mona’s own voice. I felt that I was in some danger of embarrassing myself before the rest of my friends, and it behooved me to simplify matters if possible.
First, I must find out to a certainty just how I stood with Mona. Notwithstanding the admission which I had been forced to make to myself, I felt that it must be right for me to continue to devote myself to Mona, even if my heart did not bound toward her as in the days of my exuberant love. I should indeed be unworthy of her to give her up now. When I considered my former depth of feeling, I fairly despised myself for entertaining for a moment the possibility of her becoming less dear to me. But, for all that, I knew deep in my heart that the charm which had held me to her was gone, and I knew of no way to arrest and bring back my wandering affections.
Still, it could not be right for me to let her know I was changing. What would she think of me, and what opinion would Thorwald and Zenith have? I must own that the latter consideration had a good deal of force with me, for I did not want to lower myself and our whole race in their eyes.
So I prepared the form of speech with which to address Mona again on the old subject. It seemed strange that she should begin to grow fond of me just as soon as my love began to cool, and I determined with all my will never to let her know the state of my heart.
Not long after I had made this resolution, I was surprised to have the doctor tell me he was sorry to see I was not so partial to Mona’s society since she had lost her voice. I do not remember what I said to him in reply, but I know his remark set me thinking hard. Perhaps other observers had noticed the same thing and were too considerate of my feelings to speak of it. Surely, I must have matters put upon a better footing at once.
As for Mona, she was never happier in her life, if we could judge from her actions. She had now learned to talk so well in her mute language that we all found conversation with her comparatively easy. Her fascinating manners made her interesting always, and in spite of her great loss she was still an important part of the life of the house. I argued to myself that my heart must be hard indeed if I could not continue to love her. To me her behavior was characterized by such a peculiar sweetness that I knew she was ready, on a word from me, to recall some of the harsh things she had said and to own a love quite different in kind from her regard for others.
The opportunity soon came to speak to her, and I embraced it. “Mona,” I said, “I want to make a little speech to you. First, let me ask you if I can introduce a subject on which you have more than once stopped my mouth. Perhaps you know what I mean.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, “I remember it very well, and you may talk all you please about it now. You must forgive me if I was unkind before and used my voice to vex you. But I am surprised to have you bring up this topic.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought from your manner that you did not love me as you used to.”
By this time the speech that I had prepared was all out of my head, and I was wondering if it were possible that I had lost so much of my affection for Mona that she had discovered it by a change in my manner. In reply to her remark I said:
“But such a thought has not made you unhappy, Mona, if I may judge from your behavior. I have never seen you more cheerful and full of life.”
“No,” she responded, “I think it has had the contrary effect. I was rather relieved to find you were recovering from your foolishness, and I thought we would now be able to live in peace, treating each other in a kind and sensible manner. I am disappointed to find that you are still clinging to the old idea, but I will not object to your saying all you please on the subject, for I have my own reasons now for being gracious to you.”
“That’s the very thing I want to ask you about, Mona. I have noticed your great kindness of late, and have supposed it came from the fact that you were learning to love me in my way; that is, somewhat to the exclusion of others. Isn’t it that?”
“I think you will not be pained when I say you have had a wrong impression.”
“Why do you think such a discovery will not pain me?”
“Because I am sure you do not care for me now in the same way as before. It was my voice that inthralled you. In all this interview you have not once said you love me, and you know at one time you could say nothing else. But let me tell you why I have shown an extra tenderness toward you recently. It was because I feared you would think I blamed you for my misfortune. I wanted to let you know I had not the least unkind feeling and that, in spite of the loss of my voice, I was as happy and contented as ever.”
“Well, after all, you do love me a little, do you not, Mona?”
“Why, of course I do, just as much as ever. And now let us go right along and be nice to each other. We will love each other and love everybody else just the same, and you must promise not to look disturbed any more when I am talking with Foedric; but you have been very good about that of late.”
“I will promise,” I answered; “but what will you do if you find I am loving another person more than you?”
“Oh, I cannot understand what you mean by loving more and loving less. It is a strange idea to me, and I hope I shall never get accustomed to it. My way is to love everybody with all my heart, and that’s an end of it. Don’t you see in that way I escape all the worry and vexation which you seem to have in the matter? As to your loving another, you will pardon me if I say it will be a great relief to me for you to do so. I have not been used to being the sole recipient of any person’s affection, and I shall rejoice to be freed from the responsibility. If you have thought me happy heretofore, you will now be astonished at my sprightliness. I suppose you refer to Antonia. She is a lovely girl, and—”
“Allow me,” I interrupted; but before I could go on with my denial that voice again fell on my ears—so distant and low that I held my breath to listen. At first Mona did not hear it, but it soon increased in volume; and now, as the sweet sounds came pouring upon us, my companion saw how I was affected, and said in her sign language:
“Oh, I was mistaken. Antonia is not the one.”
My heart was now all aflame, and, with Mona by my side and gazing into my glowing face, I almost forgot her presence in the approach of one whose song had such power. Was she old? Music like that is never old. Why should not my heart go out to her? She was still beautiful and not so old as I had supposed. And then, of course, people in that advanced condition, did not wear out in a few years as they did on the earth. As for her size, she was rather small for a Martian, and I, living under new conditions, would certainly take a start before many days, and no doubt become as large as Foedric, almost.
These ingenuous sentiments came to me with the sweet accents of that melodious song, and when Avis appeared I had great difficulty to keep from making some foolish exhibition of my feelings.
At my next sober moment, that is, when I was by myself, and out of hearing of that intoxicating music, it was very easy for me to realize my ridiculous situation, but not so easy to tell how I was to escape from it. As to my relations with Mona herself, I was greatly relieved by our last conversation. I certainly need no longer feel obliged to tie my vagrant heart to her. She would not miss it if it never once showed itself again, but how could I hope to preserve any sort of character in the eyes of my other friends? What sport the doctor would make of me if he knew how I felt toward Avis. He little thought that this was the daughter of Mars most likely to bring me to my knees.
And the doctor would have good reason for whatever enjoyment he might have at my expense, for I felt at first that I did not deserve any sympathy. When away from the powerful influence of that voice I was myself, and could see everything in its true perspective, but it is difficult to describe the change that came over me as soon as those entrancing notes fell upon my ear. The music sent great waves of emotion through my being, the storm center generally appearing to be the seat of my affections. My heart would beat fast, going out toward the singer in sympathy and love. The doubts of propriety belonging to my sane moments—hesitation, argument, uncertainty—all went in a flash, and I was almost ready to throw myself before her and proclaim my love without shame or embarrassment. At such times I felt that I could hold my head up in view of all the inhabitants of Mars and prove to them that I was not fickle, but as steadfast as constancy itself in following always one and the same attraction. Was I not as true to the best that was in me, when my heart was ravished by the voice of Avis, as I was when I had loved Mona so tenderly for the same sweet charm?
As day followed day in this delightful home, it was the society of Avis which I continually sought, and I was never quite happy except in her presence, or, at least, within hearing distance of her voice. And it was not long before the constant association of Avis with the music I loved so well began, even when I was not listening to her, to draw my affections toward one who, at will, could exert such power over me.
Mona was still herself, the same friendly, joyous creature as ever, but the knowledge that I could never gain her undivided affection helped to cure my infatuation. And now, with my heart free, why should I not love Avis? The mere fact that she was an inhabitant of Mars proved that she was far too good for me, but I could see by the example of Foedric and Antonia that Avis would never, in consequence of her high development, have any scruples against loving one person more than others.
When I had fully persuaded myself that I was perfectly consistent in my present course, I became quite anxious to know what others would think of me. But I was too much afraid of the doctor’s criticism to confide my secret to him. I must try one of the Martians, whose high breeding and true courtesy would not permit them to make light of one’s feelings on so serious a subject.
So it was to Zenith that I went for sympathy. She had been more than kind to me, and it is remarkable how easy and perfectly at home she made me feel in her company.
“Zenith,” I began, “I want to consult you on a delicate subject, and I will first ask you a rather abrupt question. Will you give us your permission to take Avis back to the earth with us?”
A Martian never loses self-possession and is never at a loss what to say to the most unexpected proposition.
“Well, that is abrupt,” Zenith quickly responded. “Do you know, Thorwald and I were talking only this morning about your apparent fondness for the society of Avis. Are you forgetting Mona?”
This was getting into the subject faster than I had intended, and I determined to take my time, so I said:
“Zenith, this province must be the New England of Mars, by the way you evade my question and ask another.”
“But you wouldn’t expect me to answer such a question offhand. You see, it contains several new ideas. First, I didn’t know you thought of returning to the earth. Then I am surprised that you should want to take anybody with you. And, finally, I am more surprised that you should choose Avis rather than Mona. Now that I have explained so fully, may I not ask you again if this means that you are forgetting Mona?”
“Mona is not able to sing for me,” I said.
“And do your ideas of what is right allow you to become indifferent to her as soon as she loses one of her attractions? Here her misfortune would tend to make her only more dear to one who really loved her.”
To which I made haste to answer:
“I am proud to tell you, Zenith, that such sentiments prevail on the earth, too, and I have been trying hard to hold them in my own breast. But in living with you I am learning to be honest, and it would not be right for me to deny that Mona’s chief charm for me is gone from her, and is in the possession of another. The voice of Avis has the same power over me that Mona’s formerly had, and shall I fight against my growing fondness for Avis?”
“Is your race so little developed, then,” asked Zenith, “that your ears are the only avenue to your hearts?”
Before I could answer, Mona herself came bounding into the room, and Zenith continued:
“There’s the poor child now. How can you be so unkind to her?”
“Who’s unkind to me?” asked Mona in her sign language.
“Zenith thinks I am,” I answered.
“Why, you are mistaken, Zenith; he is just the opposite. We have always loved each other, and I think more of him than ever since I lost my voice, and he has ceased making serious speeches to me that I can’t understand. I wish you could see how he enjoys hearing Avis sing.”
In this way Mona proved to Zenith that she was not heart-broken. I was going to explain the matter myself, but was glad to have Mona take it out of my hands.
The most difficult task yet remained. I must tell Avis how affairs stood; and yet, was it the proper thing for me to do? I wondered how the delicate subject of making love was handled in Mars, where the two sexes were perfectly equal. Which one was to make the advances? The matter is simple enough on the earth, where women are inferior and dependent. Of course, they must smother their own feelings and wait to be discovered, while the men can make their selection, and if they do not succeed at first can simply try again. That is entirely proper, and everybody knows just what to do; but here things are probably different. I don’t want to make a failure in this case, as I did with Mona, not knowing the customs of the moon-dwellers. Perhaps my best way will be to try a little coquetry and pretend I do not care for her nor her singing. That may draw her on to make some avowal to me.
I had gone so far in my deliberations, when I was interrupted by the doctor, who called to ask if I did not want to go out with him. I consented reluctantly, as I preferred to go on with my thinking till I could come to some decision. But the doctor had a purpose in taking me out, and, as soon as a good opportunity presented itself, he said, inquiringly:
“You find Avis a pretty good singer?”
“Excellent.”
“And good company?”
“Excellent company. Why?”
“Oh, nothing; only I thought you were neglecting another friend.”
“Why, Mona doesn’t care for me, and Avis does, or, at least, I think she does.”
“Do you mean by this,” inquired the doctor, “that you have transferred to Avis the personal interest you had in Mona?”
“Have you anything to say in disparagement of Avis?” I asked.
“Certainly not. I have a high respect for her. But there is one other plain question I would like to ask you, in view of your rather erratic behavior.”
“Well, what is it? I’m dying to know.”
“It is this. What are you going to do with Margaret?”
“Margaret? Oh, yes, I forgot about Margaret. That is something else I have got to think over.”
That night, as I was falling asleep, the same sweet, familiar music came to me from a distant part of the house. Half-thinking and half-dreaming, I let my mind drift where it would. The sensation received through my ears was so delicious and so satisfying that I wondered why I could not rest in it entirely and not think of the singer; but that was impossible. The notes penetrated from my brain down to the region of my heart. I thought of Margaret, but Margaret could not sing like that. Mona could not, now; no one but Avis. Oh, how I loved her for it! I remembered how nice Margaret was, and how much I had once thought of her; but as for loving her now, with this music of Mars in my ears, why, I simply couldn’t try to do it. At last Margaret, Mona, Avis, all became jumbled up in my chaotic mind, and I thought they were one superb woman, and I loved her. The conceit was worthy the colossal selfishness of a dreamer. The essence of three worlds was mine. The earth, the moon, and Mars had all given me their best. And she could sing. The thought was soothing. I was asleep.
The events related in the foregoing chapter were interesting to us all, in one way and another, but the doctor and I felt that the real purpose of our visit to Mars, if anything so unpremeditated could be said to have a purpose, was to learn all we could of the planet, and especially of its people. And as we did not know how soon our visit might be brought to a close, we lost no time in urging Thorwald to continue his instruction whenever he could find it convenient. Thorwald’s answer to this was, that he hoped nothing would occur to hasten our departure, but that it was his convenience to heed at any time our wishes, and he would resume his talk as soon as we pleased. So it was not long before we were seated, and Thorwald began again as follows:
“It is now my privilege to speak to you, my friends, of that part of our history which differs from anything you have experienced, and I anticipate much pleasure in doing so. I must say again that we have found the parallel remarkably close between your career and ours up to the time when you left the earth.”
“We have indeed,” remarked the doctor, “and that makes us all the more anxious to learn what came to you next and how you escaped the threatening storms.”
“There were certainly many clouds upon our horizon at that day,” resumed Thorwald. “The people were full of unrest. The worst part wanted to replace organized society with anarchy, but this extreme party never succeeded in their purpose. The world had progressed too far for that. There were too many churches and schools and printing presses. The anarchists should have begun their efforts in a ruder age.
“There was more danger from the jealousies and mischievous tendencies among the great industrial class, because their number was so large. But even here the same influences which saved us from the nihilist had their effect. As time went on, men came to think more, and the result of this was that both conscience and reason began to govern men’s actions.
“The workmen had looked about them and had seen many corporations increasing in wealth and power, and individuals rolling up enormous fortunes, and they had felt that they were not getting a fair share of the money their labor was earning. But then a little thought enabled them to realize that these evidences of great prosperity came from the successful few, while a large proportion of all business ventures were failures; and in these the employees received more of the profits than the owners did. Then the wage-earners had the benefit of much of the money accumulated in large fortunes, by having the free use of libraries, trade schools, reading rooms, and an increasing number of philanthropic institutions, which were equipped and endowed by the rich. Such a use of wealth became an ordinary thing, so that it was not a matter of wonder and wide notice when a man spent a liberal share of his fortune in educational or other humanitarian work.
“All this had a great effect on the mass of the people, gradually raising the average of character, and placing before the mind a higher incentive for right living. Ignorance had always been to the race a twin enemy with sin, and the growth of intelligence meant the general elevation of mankind.
“Another chief item in the reformation of men in that age of improvement was the general abandonment of the drinking habit. You will understand, of course, that the mainspring of all these reforms was the gospel of Christ, under which man’s spiritual nature was gradually developing. But, at the same time, there was always a secondary cause, and through human instrumentality such blessings came to us. What do you suppose brought about the overthrow of intemperance?”
“I suspect,” answered the doctor, with a glance at our hostess, “it was the growing influence of woman, who, by that time, according to Zenith’s account, ought to be taking quite a leading position.”
“Doctor,” said Thorwald, “you take in the situation completely. If there was one thing woman had always been sure she could do, it was the breaking up of the liquor traffic. In the old days, when she had been treated as man’s inferior, she had declared that, if she had the power, she would stamp out the manufacture and sale of intoxicating drinks, and make it impossible for men to get them at any price. And when power came to her I am glad to say she proved that her boast had not been in vain. Not that she fulfilled her threat in any such dramatic way as she had had in mind, but the end was accomplished just as surely by the force of her high character, working itself out in many ways. It was chiefly a crusade of education. The children of one generation after another were taught the value of right habits and purity of body, and in time the change was wrought, a victory for woman more precious to the race than any army of mailed warriors had ever won.
“With temperance came better manners, more self-respect, a kinder spirit, a more tender care for others, and, along with these things, better hearts and better homes.”
As Thorwald had invited us to interrupt him as often as we pleased, I took advantage of a pause here by saying:
“I see, Thorwald, you are making the people all too good to leave any fear in the mind of a social convulsion, but I would like to ask how politics were smoothed out. During that period of industrial war, which you described to us, you said the workingmen and ignorant classes found they were in the majority and were beginning to use their power unjustly. We are threatened in a similar way on the earth at this time, and I am anxious to know how the cloud in your sky was dispersed.”
“I will endeavor to make it plain to you,” replied Thorwald, “but you must remember I am trying to condense the history of a great many years into as few words as possible. It was found that there had been a mistake in making the right of suffrage universal without universal education, and that the ignorant and vicious were so numerous as to make the average unsafe to rely upon in a crisis. It was a difficult matter to remedy this state of things. Some attempts were made from time to time to confine the privilege of citizenship to the intelligent part of the community, but many of the best people thought this was taking the wrong course, and that the only safe cure was in educating all classes up to a full appreciation of their higher duties. There was a growing faith, the world over, in the virtue of the people at large, and wherever they had been given full power to govern themselves, or had taken it from their former rulers, they were exceedingly jealous of any abridgment of this power.
“Here, again, we see the effects of the beneficent influence of woman. The more her dominion increased the more was intelligence diffused, and although she yielded to the subtle temptation of power and reigned alone for a while, yet the world had, on the whole, great cause to be thankful for her signal advancement. With education made compulsory, and with society brought gradually under the sway of woman’s finer nature and more lofty ideals, communities were molded to a higher form of life, and saved from the evils which threatened them in their former state.
“Let me tell you briefly how war was banished from our world, that monster whose hideous presence would be so utterly out of place here now. At the beginning of the age I am describing, the foremost nations kept powerful armies and navies, all ready for their deadly work. Wars were frequent and bloody. The best of the young men in nearly every land were forced to bear arms and fight for their country at the command of their rulers, while the conscience of mankind was dulled and stunted by the spectacle or constant menace of war.
“The lives of millions of men were actually in the hands of a few irresponsible autocrats, who were possessed with exaggerated or false notions of national honor. Now came a time when the world stood hushed, as it were, on the eve of a mighty conflict. Every nation had increased its army and strengthened its defenses to the utmost limit. Every day threatened to see the match lighted—a hasty word, a fancied insult, any trivial thing, which would bring on the struggle and put the world in mourning. And what was it all for? No one could tell. It seemed to be nothing but the selfish ambition of the rulers and their innate love for supremacy. As for the real actors, those who were to do the actual fighting, they had no love for their work. However it may have been in the past, the world was older now and better, and war was abhorred with all its accompaniments both by the army and by the people at large.
“It was a time of great inventions, looking not only to the saving of life but to its destruction. Even while the nations were standing, arms in hand, waiting for the signal to begin the conflict, their weapons were rendered useless and the strength of their fortresses reduced to nothing by the working of one man’s brain. Yes, by a single invention, inspired by God for the good of his creation, inhuman war received its death-blow and the world obtained a mighty impulse toward its final goal.”
The doctor became somewhat excited by these words and asked with eagerness:
“What wonderful invention was that?”
“The perfection of the air ship,” Thorwald replied, “by which any required weight could be taken into the air, and carried with ease and certainty by currents of air or force of gravity.
“You no doubt see what such an invention implies. It means that powerful explosives could be dropped from the sky in quantities sufficient to annihilate an army or utterly destroy a city. Experiments were made, and engineers learned, with surprising rapidity, to cast the bombs with great accuracy from any desired height.
“At once every government hastened to build air ships and manufacture explosives. There seemed to be no limit in sight to the production of either, and soon power enough was stored in this way to extinguish half the life of the world, when rightly applied. The entire system of warfare was revolutionized; but, while all were preparing for offensive operations, there appeared to be no adequate plan of defense under the new system. It therefore became apparent that, should the threatening cloud burst, it would be difficult to imagine the extent of the destruction it would bring. This feeling, which filled all hearts with dread, delayed the catastrophe, for no one was ready to assume such an immense responsibility. So matters stood for a long time, the fear of the dire consequences preventing an outbreak, while the sentiment against war was rapidly growing. In nations of the highest civilization, where the Christian character of the people was reflected in the government, some serious disputes had been settled by arbitration, and every time this humane method was adopted a precedent was created which made war appear more and more useless and barbarous. The world was now becoming so much changed that such a good example was contagious, and the result was that the aerial warships and the deadly dynamite did not have to be used.
“Among the legends of the time is the improbable one that, when these air fleets were at their highest point of efficiency, and the world was literally lying at their mercy, one hot-headed young monarch, whose selfish pride had stolen away his senses, gave the command to fire the train which would ram destruction upon his foes, when, wonder of wonders, not a man would obey his order. Angered beyond measure by such an unwonted experience, he seized with his own hand the electric apparatus arranged to give the fatal spark, but with such violence and indiscretion that, instead of sending the current on its appointed mission, it turned from its course and destroyed the angry youth himself.
“This is undoubtedly a myth, but the rest that I have told you is well-authenticated history.
“The abolition of war seems sudden, but it never would have taken place as it did had not the people been prepared for it by a radical change in their character. For many years the spirit of peace had been quietly at work on the heart of mankind, until it came to be realized that warfare and strife, whether between individuals or nations, were bound to die away under the growing appreciation for the higher law.
“It was one of the supreme days in the history of Mars, when grim war passed and became but a memory. The effect was instantaneous. At once the people of the different nations were drawn together to their mutual advantage. Commerce became world-wide, one language was adopted, and the arts of peace flourished as never before. Men began to feel that they were one family, national distinctions were made little of, and the world drifted gradually toward universal brotherhood.
“I must now draw your attention to the work of the church and show you how it was carrying out its great commission. First, to prepare for the highest usefulness, it quite early freed itself from the sectarian spirit. As the magnitude of its mission became more apparent the points of difference between the denominations grew constantly smaller, and, in time, all Christians found themselves united on the fundamental truths of the gospel, and working together to bring the world to the light. With this union fully accomplished, Christianity became more than ever the dominant force in the world, and the church the chief center of all work looking to the elevation of the race.
“The progress of the world was along the line of the brotherhood of man, and that doctrine was the church’s own Christianity taught the true socialism, which, however, could not be realized till the heart had lost its selfishness, and each one had learned to care for the interests of his neighbor. Although such a condition was not in sight at that day, there was a mighty awakening which set the current of men’s thoughts and desires strongly in the right direction.”
“Do you call yourselves socialists now?” asked the doctor.
“No,” answered Thorwald, “but you can call us so, if you please. It is a good word, but our condition is much more perfect, since the coming of the kingdom of God in every heart, than any dream of socialism, in the olden time, ever contemplated.
“I was speaking of the increasing power of religion. Where the church had been weak and dependent on a few half-earnest, timid believers, it was now strong and active, and supported by all the self-respecting portion of society. Instead of being forced to beg for its meager subsistence, it now received in abundance the money that was poured out voluntarily. Men did not wait for death, but gave their fortunes away during their lives, and enjoyed the blessing which followed. The church went down to the people, and in so doing lifted them up to itself. It showed them how to make much of life, gave them instruction and recreation and social enjoyment, fed the hungry, clothed the naked, and visited those in trouble. It strengthened family and neighborhood ties, encouraged peace and good-fellowship, and taught men to love each other as a preparation for loving God.
“A local church of that day was not a feeble body of men and women, with an overworked and underpaid man at their head, who was expected to do all the varied work required, except what he could get done by a small number of his members, themselves worn out with the labor and business of life. No, I will acquaint you with a then modern church. It was an institution rich in resources and men, male and female, reaching out into the community in every direction, helping the people in every imaginable way to live as well as preparing them to die, a beauty and a joy to all. It appealed to every side of man’s nature, first supplying physical wants, not by indiscriminate largess of money, but by teaching sobriety, industry, and thrift as virtues necessary to a rounded character. Such teaching was not confined to pulpit precepts, but there was no lack of good souls who took delight in going into the homes of the people and showing them by example the best ways of living, and how to make even the homeliest duties a loving and beautiful service. To provide further for the needs of the body, there were gymnasiums, bath-houses, swimming schools, playgrounds, riding schools, and the like.
“More numerous still were the means offered to meet the intellectual and social desires—club-houses, lecture halls, conservatories, museums, picture galleries, libraries, reading rooms, observatories, kindergartens, manual training and trade schools, besides games and sports, spectacular and dramatic exhibitions of a high order, and many other things, designed to compete with attractions of a debasing character.
“Then, rising high over all, both in outward form and inward grace, was the church edifice itself, set apart and strictly preserved for its sacred purpose. In the noble lines of its architecture, in the beauty of its artistic adornment, and in the character of its service, intellectual and musical, it represented the highest culture of the age. The structure included under its roof accommodations for the various departments of religious work, and its doors were always open, inviting every passer-by to enter and seek for spiritual refreshment.
“Imagine, if you can, an institution employing all these agencies, every one of them fully equipped and manned, and with streams of money flowing in to their support; no barren appeals from the pulpit for funds to pay expenses, and no auctioneer’s hammer profaning the sacred aisles.
“This was the church of the period. Can you wonder that God’s rich blessing was on such work and that his kingdom made rapid progress? There was an ever-increasing number of God’s ministers, men and women, imbued with Christ’s own spirit, working in all these various activities to elevate and save their kind.
“In the life of the people there was nothing in all the world that so surrounded them as the church. They could not escape from its influence. It touched them from one side or from another, calling upon them, by every manner of appeal, to lead less sordid lives, and seek the highest good. Whereas in the olden time they seemed to be set in the midst of evil influences, which imperceptibly molded their characters and too often wrecked their lives, their condition was so changed that their environment was now a help and not a hindrance, and so the gospel found easy entrance to their hearts and lives.
“This much the church had done by giving its money and itself, with new-born zeal, to the work of the Master. And from this time you may be sure its victories were rapid and notable.
“While this great change in society had been going on among nominal Christian people, hand in hand had gone the work of the gospel in heathen lands. The faster the money was poured out for the church at home, the more plentifully it was offered for the foreign field. Sometimes it was feared there would be more money than men and women for the work. Then the laborers would come forward in such numbers that the money would be exhausted, which, however, gave no concern, for it was sure to come again as soon as needed. Where one missionary, in the former days, had had the courage to take up the work, now thousands sprang forward and with eager hearts went into the field.
“Going to the heathen in the same spirit of brotherly love and helpfulness which had been so successful at home, the church was almost overwhelmed with the happy results. One people after another threw away their idols, and became followers of the gentle Savior, whose disciples showed so much of his spirit. In every part of the world the gospel was gaining fast over superstition and ignorance. In Christian lands no other news was so sought after by all as the reports of the progress of the cross, at home and abroad. Enthusiasm is a small word with which to describe the burst of genuine interest in this great cause. Nor was it a transient show of feeling, but so steady and constant that there was never any doubt of its enduring till the final victory was won.
“Where now were the dangers that threatened society? What had become of the labor troubles, the schemes of the anarchists, the menace of the unemployed, the risk of a plutocracy, and all the evils that darkened the sky of that former day? How far away, how trivial these things seemed, now that they had passed, and men were learning to dwell together in peace.”