“Let us step into the music room,” said Thorwald. “Doctor, what acquaintance have you with the telephone?”
“We think we have brought the telephone to a considerable degree of perfection,” said the doctor. “At first it was rather crude, and many preferred to forego its use in order to escape its annoyances. But of recent years great improvements have been made, until its employment is now a pleasure, as well as an essential help in our business and social life.”
“Does it minister to any other sense than the hearing?”
“It does not, although I have seen a vague promise somewhere of an invention by which we could see an image of the person we were speaking to.”
“If that is all, I shall be able to give you a pleasant surprise,” pursued Thorwald. “Just sit in those chairs, and do nothing but keep your eyes open and listen.”
We saw him arrange a series of long panels, in which were elegant mirrors, and then, as he gently pulled an ivory knob, there fell upon our ears, very faintly, like distant echoes, strains of the most delicious music. Gradually the tones became louder and more defined, and Zenith, with a quick smile and glance, directed our attention to the opposite side of the room. There our wondering eyes beheld the orchestra with whose notes we were then enchanted. There must have been a hundred players or more, and we seemed to be looking upon them from a distance which would bring the whole group within the bounds of the room. It was not a picture thrown on a screen, but was as if the musicians were actually present. Every motion made with their instruments was in exact accord with the accompanying note, and, wherever this orchestra might have its local habitation, it was certainly playing before our little audience that morning.
As the selection ended the scene faded away under the manipulation of Thorwald, and in a moment the room was filled with a harmony of voices such as I had never heard on the earth. And now the great chorus appeared, crowding this time three sides of the apartment and rising, tier on tier, to the ceiling. We could see the glad faces of the singers and knew how they must be enjoying their work. Brilliant solo parts burst out from one side and the other, and again from the middle throng, but it was impossible to tell from what individual singers these notes came.
When this scene, too, had passed and the music, all too soon, had ceased, Thorwald made haste to answer the inquiry he saw in our faces by saying:
“These concerts are now being given in two cities, both of them several thousand miles east of here, so far that it is now afternoon there. If we desire music after dinner this evening we can make connection with some city west of us, and by going farther west we can invoke sweet sounds to soothe us to sleep. Being connected with all the musical centers, you can see how, by trying either one direction or the other, we can have something worth hearing at any hour of the day or night, with the players and singers themselves employed, of course, only in the daytime. We have daily programmes of every concert sent us by telephone. They are received here, you see, and printed automatically on these sheets.”
Zenith had watched us with eager interest during this marvelous exhibition. It was a novel experience, for they had never before had the opportunity of showing this perfected invention to those entirely ignorant of it, and they both enjoyed seeing the pleasure which must have beamed from our faces. I wanted to say something, but could think of nothing fit for the occasion, and was relieved to hear the doctor speak:
“My good friends,” said he, “do not try to show us anything beyond this or we shall lose our mental balance. I believe in fairyland now, for I have just come from there. I never paid much attention to music on the earth, and did not feel any shame for it either, but I am now sure it will be to my everlasting disgrace if I neglect it another day.”
This speech pleased Zenith exceedingly, and her emotion made her voice and manner more charming than ever as she said:
“If you stay with us, Doctor, you shall have plenty of good music, and you will soon become not only a music lover but a music maker, for every Martian is proficient in this art.”
“Do you think,” asked the doctor, “that there is the faintest hope that the earthly music will ever reach the high standard of that we have just heard?”
“Thorwald has told me something of your history,” Zenith replied, “and I share his strong faith in your happy destiny. It seems to me that your race is equal to any achievement you have witnessed here, and even greater things, but it will take much time. Such changes are very slow. As for us, we hope we are still making advancement in music. We have few higher employments, and hardly one in which we are more entirely engrossed. It was given to us at an early stage of our development, and all through our troubled course music has been one of the chief influences for good. It has helped to keep hope alive during the darkest periods of our history, and has always been a mighty incentive toward a higher spiritual state. As your race advances I am sure you will realize more and more the beauty and value of this art, heaven-born and exhaustless.”
We all smiled at Zenith’s happy assurance that the earth was on the upward path, and Thorwald said:
“You see hope is contagious. But as we have been through all your present troubles and have triumphed over them, it is perhaps easier for us to believe in you than for you to believe in yourselves.
“And now, should you like to see how the telephone works in every-day matters?”
On our replying in the affirmative, Thorwald turned a switch, waited a moment, turned it again, and then there appeared before our eyes a familiar object, nothing less than the ship in which we had made our recent voyage. A number of the men, whom we recognized, were walking about the deck, and one stood apart, near the side of the vessel, conversing with Thorwald, the words of both being audible to us. When they were through, the scene faded away and Thorwald said:
“As soon as the ship reached its dock connection was made with the general system of wires, and the instrument, which is stationed near the place where the man was standing, was ready for use.
“So, whenever we desire to talk to our friends, we summon them to our presence. You see it is not necessary to speak directly into the transmitter. We can sit comfortably in our chairs and converse as easily as when our friends are actually present.”
“Let me ask you, Thorwald,” said the doctor, “how all the electricity you use is generated? The immense quantity you employ must necessitate a great deal of power to produce it. Is there a huge plant in every city driven by steam?”
“No,” answered Thorwald. “We make no use of steam in these days. All the power we need is obtained from natural waterfalls and rapids. This power, which nature has placed ready made at our hand, is so abundant that it can never be exhausted.”
“These waterfalls must fortunately be well distributed,” remarked the doctor.
“Not more so, I presume, than on the earth,” Thorwald made answer. “Every stream that runs in its bed has in it a power proportioned to the volume of water and the swiftness of its current. Think of the amount of water wasted every day in this way—no, not wasted, but unused. We do not need, however, to utilize ordinary streams, as there are enough great falls where power is transformed into electricity to be sent over wires to any distance required. In every city or district large storage facilities are provided from which power can be obtained for all possible purposes. Our beds of coal and wells of oil were long since exhausted, but while rain falls and water runs this power can never fail us.
“Doctor, what is the best metal you have for transmitting electricity?”
“Copper,” answered my companion. “Silver is a little better conductor, and a new metal, called glucinium, is better still, but both of these are too expensive for general use. Our telegraph and telephone wires were formerly made of iron for the sake of economy, but copper is now used for these lines, as well as for distributing electricity on a large scale. The copper wire now commonly used for the telegraph has a resistance of something like four ohms to the mile.”
“You are making good progress,” said Thorwald. “But we have a metal of such good conducting qualities that, without making the wire too large for convenient use, we have reduced the resistance to an ohm to the mile.”
“That is an exceedingly valuable metal,” the doctor said. “And now let me ask you a practical question. You say you draw your electricity for a thousand and one uses from a large storage plant in each city. Do you pay for it by the kilowatt, or how is it measured?”
“We ask for so many watts or kilowatts, and it is also measured by the watt hour. But are you serious in asking if we pay for it?”
“Why, you surely do not mean it is given away,” exclaimed the doctor, “after all the expense connected with producing and transmitting it.”
“Yes, I mean that whatever quantity we want to use is ours for the asking. Before we could buy it some one would have to own it, and that could never be. Besides, how could we buy anything without money?”
“What! No money either?” broke in the doctor again. “Well, if you can get along without money, that accounts in my mind for much of your happiness. Just think of that,” continued the doctor, turning to me, “to be forever rid of money and all the trouble it brings.”
“Of what value would it be to us?” asked Thorwald. “We could not use it.”
“Some of our people on the earth,” replied the doctor, “have oceans of it which they cannot use, and still they seem to think it is of much value. It is an inherent characteristic of our race to love the mere possession of money or other property, and human nature must change a great deal before we can begin to reach the exalted moral condition which you now enjoy, to say nothing of your spiritual state.”
“Your nature will change,” said Thorwald, “and do not doubt that the change has already begun. Time is what you need, and there is time enough for everything.”
After the midday lunch had been served we were invited to take a walk about the grounds. As the doctor and I were admiring the beautiful lawns and gorgeous beds of flowers, and then stood enraptured at the sight of the noble mansion itself, Zenith watched us eagerly, and finally said, with a smile:
“You discovered my favorite department of art this morning. Now is a good time to learn what Thorwald’s is.”
“Judging from what we have already seen and heard of your husband,” said I, “it seems to me he must be an astronomer, or, if not that, then a theological professor.”
“If he has been talking to you on either of those subjects,” she returned, “I have no doubt he told you things worth taking home with you, but his pet topics of study are architecture and its sister art, landscape gardening. This house is a creature of his brain, and all the artistic effects in color and pattern, which I know you have the taste to admire, are of his designing.”
The simple, unaffected manner in which Zenith showed her pride in her husband’s achievements was refreshing, and the knowledge she imparted only added still more to our high appreciation of our friend.
It was now time for Thorwald to speak, and he remarked quietly:
“It is true that I love architecture. It is another occupation of which we can never tire and whose resources we can never fathom. A beautiful, dignified, and truly artistic building is one of the highest possible products of our civilization, and such work brings out all the poetic feeling in one’s nature, just as the production of a fine painting or piece of sculpture does. These arts, and literature as well, all have their special devotees among us, but everyone knows enough of all arts to appreciate and enjoy good work in every department.
“We build truthfully, and this helps to make what we build beautiful, for truth is beautiful wherever it is found; and beauty is an object to be sought after for its own sake, an enjoyable thing well worth striving for. Religion and art, using both those terms in a comprehensive sense, have worked together, through all our history, to lift up our souls and fit them for higher and higher duties.”
“Thorwald,” said Zenith, “I think our friends would enjoy seeing some of our imposing buildings and other works of art while this subject is before them.”
That this was not a suggestion that we should start on an extended tour of the country was proved by Thorwald, who said:
“Very well, we will then go into the music room again, if you please.”
Here we were shown, by the new powers of the telephone, a bewildering succession of the grandest structures our imagination could picture: churches and cathedrals, college buildings, observatories, museums, music halls and private residences. These were not like pictures or views; but the structures themselves, in full perspective and in all the richness of their coloring, seemed to stand before us. Trees waving in the breeze, people and carriages passing in the streets and occasionally a movement at a window or door, all aided the illusion and made it difficult to realize that we were not in the midst of the scenes we were gazing upon.
Thorwald or Zenith told us the name or purpose of each building as it appeared, and the novel exhibition closed with the presentation of a large and splendid playhouse.
As this was announced I involuntarily exclaimed:
“So you have kept the theater, have you? Some good people on the earth think the drama is demoralizing.”
“That,” said Zenith, “is probably because you have allowed it to become debased. We read in our histories of such a period here. Indeed, for a long time both the play and the opera were abolished, our advancing civilization having given them up under the impression that the good in them was overbalanced by the evil. But when the era of a more noble personal character had come the drama was revived, and now is not only a source of innocent pleasure but is also a decided help to our growth.
“I recognize the house we are now looking at. It is in quite a distant city, and I see Thorwald has purposely chosen it because at this moment an able company is presenting there one of our most popular plays. Would you like to hear some of it?”
No sooner were these words uttered than we saw Thorwald make a slight movement of the switch, and, lo! the scene was changed to the interior of the building, and there before us was the Martian theater in full play. We sat as it were in the dress circle, with the orchestra and stage in our front. All was beauty and life around us, and the richness and harmonious coloring of the whole interior were simply beyond description. The play was going on in a quiet, dignified manner and every word and gesture were characterized with the greatest naturalness. It struck the doctor and me as a peculiar feature that, while we could hear everything that was said on the stage and even the rustle of the people around us, we ourselves could talk and laugh without being noticed. This effect was produced by an ingenious attachment to the telephone, and the doctor was moved to remark:
“This is an altogether comfortable and satisfactory situation.”
“Yes,” added Zenith, “we think it is almost as good as being actually present in the theater.”
We assured her it was better, in our opinion, and then we thanked them both for the pleasure they had given us. But we began to think their resources for entertaining their friends would never be exhausted when Thorwald told us he would, at some future time, show us specimens of their paintings, sculpture, fine porcelain, elegant furniture, and many other works of art.
One morning, a few days later, as we were rising from breakfast, Thorwald said:
“Well, my friends, I suppose you will go to church with us to-day?”
“To church?” asked we in one breath.
“Yes, this is Sunday.”
“Oh, is it?” I said. “I began to think you didn’t have Sunday here. It is now eight days since our return from the moon, and this is the first we have heard of it.”
“Let me see,” said Thorwald, “I believe this is the first Sunday we have spent at home since you came to us.”
“Then how long is your week?”
“Ten days.”
“That accounts for our misunderstanding,” I said, “for our Sunday comes every seventh day.”
“That is an odd number,” returned Thorwald. “With us the week is the basis of our decimal method of reckoning. We have one hundred minutes in an hour and ten hours in a day.”
Of course we were ready to go to church, and when we were on the way, seated in a comfortable carriage, the doctor said to Thorwald:
“If for any reason you do not care to go out on Sunday, I suppose you can all repair to your music room, turn that little switch, and listen to the best preacher and the best church music in the land. But do not imagine by that remark that we have any fault to find with this method of going to church. For my part, I think I prefer it.”
“I perceive,” answered Thorwald, “that you have a good idea of the capabilities of the telephone, but I shall have to correct you in this case. Our instruments are not connected with any of the churches. But to-morrow we can get, by asking through the telephone, phonograph rolls of any sermons that are delivered to-day. If we preferred we could get them in print, but the phonograph is pleasanter. This instrument is now so perfect that the imitation of the speaker’s words and tones is faultless. The works of all our authors can be obtained in this form, and our libraries consist in great part of phonograph rolls. Even the poets of former generations speak to us, and the voice of the singer adds its charm to the song.
“But you will want to ask me why we do not extend the use of the telephone to the churches. We learned long ago that it is a good thing for people to come together for worship and that nothing will take the place of it. We do not go for an intellectual treat nor to enjoy the music, but only for worship, and we try to keep our forms simple yet dignified and as fitting as possible in all ways. Some day I must tell you through what difficulties we have passed in church ceremonies and church government.”
It was delightful to live in the same world with Mona, not for me only but for every one who knew her. No one could help loving her; there was simply nothing else to do. Others did not make as much show of their affection as I did, perhaps because no one else was selfish enough to claim the same personal rights in her, but I found every new acquaintance she made succumbed to the power of her many charms. The secret of this general homage was her own loving nature, which just worked itself out spontaneously, but the more her love was shed abroad the more she retained for new-comers. At first my naturally jealous disposition continued to give me long hours of anguish, but I happily was able to overcome this to a great extent as I became better acquainted with her marvelous spirit.
Although I was at that time too much under the spell of this fair creature to form an unprejudiced judgment of her, I have since then attempted something of the kind, in comparing her in my mind with Antonia and others whom we met in Mars. Let me say that the Martians are not a perfect race. With our undeveloped spiritual natures we could not, during our entire visit, see any imperfections in them; but, as will be seen further on in this narrative, our good friends Thorwald and Zenith, under whose instructions kind fortune had placed us, were particular to tell us that their race had reached only an advanced state of civilization, to which the earth might one day attain, and that perfection was still a dream of the future. Taking Antonia, then, as a representative of her kind, I can see that she had a solidly formed character. She was what she was, not because she could not help it but because she herself willed it. That is, when she might have done wrong she chose to do right. Her connection with temptation was not entirely through her remote ancestors, whose sins filled such a large page in their history, but she herself had felt drawings toward evil. Yet so slightly had she yielded, and so strongly had her right years of living buttressed her against all kinds of wrong, that she, as well as all of her race whom we saw, appeared to us about perfect. Theoretically she might transgress, but practically it was all but impossible. Hers, then, was a truly noble character, and when she gave her love to Foedric he had good reason to be proud of the gift. Nor did she defraud others of their due, but her heart was open to every proper call.
Such was Antonia, one whom we could in some degree appreciate, although so far above us. But how could we understand a being like Mona, who told us, and we saw no reason to disbelieve her, that she had never known what it was to do wrong? She seemed as incapable of evil as the birds of the air, or, to make the comparison still stronger, as a beautiful rose. She was guileless by nature, and goodness and truth were as much a part of her as her beauty was. She was made to be a joy and comfort to every creature brought within the circle of her influence, and she could no more help loving than the sun can help shining. All who came near her received a share of her gracious beams.
She was unselfish and full of sympathy and every right feeling, not because she had seen the evils of selfishness and meanness, but because these latter qualities were utterly unknown to her. Her high character and perfectly correct life, therefore, were not the result of reason and choice, but were the instinctive manifestations of her pure nature.
I do not undertake to say which of these two presented the higher type of womanhood, and I certainly entered into no such speculations about them at that time, but I never had any difficulty in deciding that Mona was the one I loved. I did not, of course, relish her fondness for others. In that respect I considered her nature altogether too ardent, but I found I must get accustomed to it, as she would not change.
It made me quite despondent at times, fearing I could never lead her to feel any special liking for me. Then when she smiled upon me and sang so sweetly to me, I thought I ought to be happy though I had to share her heart with all the world. Still I did not relax my efforts to make my share larger.
“Mona,” I said, one day, “I wish you would ask me to do something real hard for you.”
“Why?” she asked.
“So that I could show you how much I love you.”
“But you have already shown me,” she said. “I cannot think of anything more difficult than you have done. Did you not keep up a firm belief that I would be found, even after the doctor and these wise men of Mars had lost all hope, and did you not, by your enthusiasm, prevail on them to enter on a difficult search for me on the moon? I have heard all about your deep concern for me and how you were affected by hearing singing which you thought was like mine. And now that I have been found, you are so watchful for my comfort and like to be so near me all the time, that I am sure I do not need any further proof of your strong attachment. But why do you pay me so much attention? Why do you not like to be with Antonia as much as with me?”
“Because I do not love her as much as I do you.”
“Why do you love me so? Because I took you down to my quiet home and saved you from being blown off the top of the moon?”
“No, the doctor and I are both grateful to you for that kindness, but gratitude isn’t love.”
“I haven’t done anything else for you,” she said.
“It isn’t for anything you have done that I love you.”
“What then?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it is because I can’t help it.”
“Oh, then you are becoming like me, for I can’t help loving everybody.”
“I shall never be good enough for that,” said I. “What is love, as you understand it?” asked Mona.
“Love—love,” I hesitated; “why, it is the feeling I have in my heart for you. Love is what kept hope alive when you were lost and gave me such joy when I heard your voice and knew we had found you. Love makes every task light that is done for you and every place where you are the brightest spot in the universe. Even this delightful world of Mars is more beautiful than ever because you are here. Love, if mutual, is a precious bond, uniting two hearts and making them beat in harmony. Cannot you and I be joined in heart, Mona?”
“My dear friend,” she replied, “I am very sorry I cannot share your feeling, but I do not understand such love as you have been trying to describe.”
“Then I fear you do not love me,” I responded, with great sadness in my voice.
“Oh, don’t say that,” she exclaimed. “Indeed I do love you. Now, how can I prove it to you? What is the opposite of love?”
“Hatred; or, in such a case as this, indifference would be about as bad as anything.”
“Well, I don’t know much about such things, but do I seem like a person who could hate you or be indifferent to you?”
“No, Mona, you seem to be the most loving creature in all the worlds we have ever known, but—”
“Oh, do not spoil that fine speech with a ‘but.’ I know what you want to say. You think I ought to love you more than anyone else, or in some different way. Now, that desire of yours is what I cannot understand. I love everybody alike because I know of no other sentiment. So it is a matter of course with me, and I do not feel obliged to tell people that I love them. You seem to make too much of it, coming to me everyday and telling me, over and over again, that you love me, just as if I doubted it. Why do you like to be with me so much? Do you think it is right to be so exclusive? You ought to favor the others with your company. As for me, I must say I prefer Foedric’s society to yours, because he has so many interesting things to talk about, while you stick continually to one subject and give me little information even on that one. You know I am a new-comer here and eager to learn all I can. Then there’s the doctor. I take more pleasure conversing with him than with you, for he seems to know more, or, at any rate, to be more able to tell me things I want to know about the earth. If the doctor were not here and you were the only one to judge from, I should be obliged to think the people of the earth a very curious race. Your companion, however, appears to be a man of considerable sense.”
Mona sang all this in her easy, natural way, being perfectly free from any intention of wounding my feelings, but the more innocent I believed her the more incapable I saw she was of entering into my feelings. I began to realize how, in loving everybody, she missed a certain enjoyment derived from a more selfish order of love. It then occurred to me that a world full of such people as Mona must have rather a monotonous time from our point of view, and I asked her if she could tell me about her race in general respecting the subject of our conversation.
“Certainly,” she replied, “I can tell you something from my own recollections, but more from our traditions.”
“Well, were the men of the moon all sensible, or were they all like me?”
“Oh, I see you have a little sense as soon as you begin to talk in a new direction. In answer to your question, let me say that the stress you have put on our personal relations is something entirely new to me, and I do not see any use or advantage in it. This must be my excuse for speaking so plainly. I should not have spoken so had I not known, in spite of what I have said, that you had too much sense to be offended.”
“I thank you,” I said. “Do not apologize for your words. I have taken them as a needed rebuke for my haste in appropriating you to myself. But I believe, Mona, that the time will come when you will know the happiness of loving one person so much that your love for all others will not be thought of in comparison. Happy will he be who, in that day, is able to prove the capacity of your great heart.”
“Then, in that day,” she responded, “shall I prove myself to be the degenerate daughter of a noble race. No, my friend, we were not made of such stuff. We loved everybody, without question and without limit. We could do nothing else, and to love one more than another was therefore impossible.”
“Let me ask if everyone was worthy of being loved?”
“Why, as to that, we were all alike. What do you think of me?”
“You know what I think of you, Mona; or, if you do not, I will tell you.”
“Yes; you needn’t tell me again. What I wanted to say is, that I am no better than the rest of my people were.”
“What a world it must have been then,” I exclaimed, “and how fortunate that the earth did not discover it earlier. With such an example before us we should have been utterly discouraged.”
When Mona had left me at the close of this conversation, I proceeded to take stock of my sensations. I had certainly been seeing a new phase of Mona’s character. Could I make such vigorous language consistent with my former conception of her? I answered yes to this question after studying it awhile, for I concluded that she was only just in giving me a lesson that I deserved. Her innocence was only the more evident, and that was the ground on which I built my faith in her. But now came the inquiry whether my love could withstand such a shock as it had received. I was no longer blind to the truth. Mona had no stronger affection for me than for her other friends, and it began to be doubtful if she ever would have, considering her peculiar education in affairs of the heart. If I continued to love her, it must be with the full knowledge that I had not as yet gained the slightest success in my effort to secure her for my own exclusive possession. My exuberant passion had received a serious shock, for I had been plainly told that it was making me appear ridiculous. Then, when there seemed to be danger that my love must grow cold under such treatment, I began to argue Mona’s cause to myself, and I bade myself take comfort once more in the old thoughts. She was young and careless, besides being entirely new to our manner of wooing, and I had been too hasty in my approaches and no doubt tired her with my continuous solicitations. But then, on the other hand, I continued, the case seemed much more hopeless than before after such a plain rebuff, and if I had any self-respect I could not continue to pay my court where my honest love was made a matter of jest.
These thoughts passed rapidly through my mind, and I cannot tell to what rash resolve they would have led me had not the music of Mona’s laughing voice just then come floating in from another room. As usual, this was more than I could resist, and its immediate effect now was to drive out reason and to enthrone love once more. All my doubt and uncertainty vanished in a twinkling, my self-respect hid itself in a dark corner of my memory, and as I instinctively started to find the fair singer I realized again, with a feeling too strong for argument, that I was still very much in love.
Our life in this cultured home continued to be as pleasant as were these first days. There was always something new to show us or to tell us. We would walk out every day and often step into a carriage and take a long ride. Our friends were famous walkers but were considerate of our feebleness, and still our returning strength, added to the great buoyancy of our bodies on that smaller planet, soon gave us also remarkable walking powers.
Sometimes the children would accompany us on an all-day excursion, and then the house would be left not only unlocked, but with the doors wide open perhaps. When we remarked on this, Zenith told us that if anyone happened along he would be at perfect liberty to go in and help himself to anything in the house. This was always understood, whether the people were at home or not, and one need not even go through the formality of asking, if he could see what he wanted. This referred not merely to bodily refreshment, of which one might be in need, but literally to everything the house contained; and the reason why there was any sort of comfort living under such conditions was, that the members of that society were all and severally of such ripe characters that it was well known one would not deprive another of anything he was using except for a reason which would be satisfactory to both.
“If we could communicate with the people on the earth,” said the doctor to me when we sat alone conversing about these things, “and tell them how the inhabitants here live, they would want to organize an expedition and start for Mars right away.”
“Yes, I think they would,” I assented. “And yet, if what Thorwald says is true, the earth will one day be as good as Mars. Do you believe it?”
“Well, the fact is,” answered the doctor, “I am ready to believe almost anything now.”
“Oh, I wish Thorwald could hear you say that.”
“I should not object,” he continued. “I am sure that some power, not comprehended by our science or philosophy, has operated here to bring these people to the condition in which we find them, and if the same kind forces are at work on the earth, let us hope they will do as much for us, no matter how much time it takes. If a belief in such a power is faith, then perhaps I am beginning to have a little faith.
“I remember I used to hear our preachers in their public prayers ask God that every form of vice and crime might be banished from the earth, and that the time might come when there should be no more sin, but only love and beauty and happiness. I have heard such prayers a hundred times, and never thought much about them. But now I am forced to think, and it seems to me that these prayers would not be made continually unless there were a hope and expectation in the minds of religious people that they would some time be answered. It is not for me to assume that such a hope is unreasonable, drawn as it is from the book which so many believe is the word of God.”
I rejoiced to hear my friend talk in this way, but it seemed very odd that he should be preaching my own doctrine to me. I had had the same thoughts, and had been trying to find the right time to offer them to the doctor. I am sure I was thankful that he was coming to such views without a word from me, for he would probably be much more apt to hold to them.
The foregoing conversation was in the evening, and the next morning we were all sitting comfortably in the music room, when Thorwald said:
“The other day I began to give you some orderly account of our history, but you see how it has been broken into by the relation of different phases, in answer to your questions. It seems to me now that it will be more interesting to you if I continue in the same way and take up one subject at a time. And now that we have a little time before us, I wish you would suggest some point upon which you would like to have me talk; that is, if it is agreeable to you.”
To which the doctor replied:
“I like your plan very much and I am sure we both have plenty of questions which will keep you supplied with topics. I have desired for some time to ask you about your industrial system. I can see how electricity has relieved you of the most arduous labor, but there must remain much disagreeable work, as we would call it, to be done with the hand. In our busy life there are a thousand such tasks, which I cannot conceive of being performed by machinery, many of them hard only because they are monotonous and awake no interest or enthusiasm in the performer. Men and women are continually wearing themselves out with such work. You must have abolished all that, if everybody here is comfortable and happy. I am very anxious to hear how it has been done.”
“In answering your question,” Thorwald began, “let me say, first, that I presume we have learned to employ machines in a great many ways which to you would seem incomprehensible. The drudgery and much of the monotony of labor have been removed, as well as its severity. But still, as you surmise, there is plenty of work for all. Our higher civilization does not require less work than yours, but rather more and of greater variety. It is all done quietly, however, without friction or any of the unpleasant features of former times.
“I suspect that the real secret of the change is in the elevation of individual character. This has done more to better our condition than electricity and all the material improvements and inventions of the age. You must believe me when I say that no sort of labor is considered disgraceful, and, further, that one occupation is just as honorable as another. The man who goes into the mine and superintends the machine which gathers the precious metal is esteemed as highly as he who, with an artist’s brain and fingers, shapes it to its highest use. The carpenter who works with his hands in the building of the house can hold his head as high as the architect who has spent many years in learning how to create the design. Why not? Both are engaged on the same work, each one in his favorite, and so his best, way. Both are working, not for daily bread or other selfish end, but for the sake of doing something useful. The perfect content and satisfaction we all enjoy in our labor come partly from our abundant health and strength, and largely, also, from our entire freedom from anxiety in regard to the means of maintenance for ourselves and our families. In these respects we are all equally fortunate. We are absolutely unconcerned about what material things we shall have for ourselves or leave to our children.”
“Do you then all have equal pay for your work, and that so much that it places you above anxiety?” asked the doctor.
“Yes,” answered Thorwald, “we are all paid equally, because we are not paid at all. So, having no wages and owning no property, why should we be anxious? You know I have told you we can have for our use anything that is produced or made without even asking anybody for it. The mere fact that we need a thing makes it rightfully ours.”
“But what is the incentive to labor if you get nothing for it, and can live just as well without it?”
“The incentive is in the love for our work and the consciousness that we are doing something to make someone happier and the world a little better. Let me give you an illustration, a personal one, if you will excuse me. A neighbor asks me to make him a plan for a house. He may be a writer of books or he may be a carriage maker, or what not, it makes not the slightest difference. I enjoy that kind of work and, having obtained his ideas in regard to a house, I do the best I can. I cannot conceive that I could do any better if I knew he would pay me for the work, as you say. In like manner he asks other neighbors to build his house for him, and he has no difficulty in finding enough men who enjoy that occupation as much as I do my part of the work, and the principle which governs them in their labor is as high as that which controls me.”
“Then,” said the doctor, “I should think the poor man—I beg your pardon, I mean the hod-carrier—could have as grand a house as the architect himself.”
“I don’t know what a hod-carrier is,” replied Thorwald, “but I get your meaning, and you are quite right. As an example of just that state of things, I will tell you that the man who tends the digging machine in my garden lives in a larger and handsomer house than this one. Why not? He has a large family, and he and his wife are educated and refined people.”
“But with no physical wants to provide against, I should think some men would find existence easier not to work at all. According to your theory they could live in as good style as the toilers and have no one to call them to account.”
“No one but themselves. Every man is his own monitor, and he needs no other. He knows his duty, and he has that within him which keeps him up to it more effectually than any outside influence could. In regard to a man’s not caring to work, we have been through all that, and we have now no such cases. We found out long ago that it is better to have some one stated employment and follow it. But this does not mean that the work becomes a burden. One can rest as often and as long as he pleases. There is no one to intimate in any way that he should be at work, as the question is left entirely to him. The moment that work ceases to be a necessity it becomes a pleasure and the most natural thing in the world. The multiplication of mechanical inventions has greatly reduced the volume of labor, so that there is really but little for each individual to do; and the truth is, there is never any lack of men. If anything, there is not enough work.”
“Your words,” said the doctor, “reveal a remarkable condition of affairs, and I fear it will be many, many years before we can begin to think seriously of such a plan, so long as to make it almost hopeless; but there is one more question I would like to ask. With all this freedom of choice, how does it happen that all do not flock to the easy and pleasant occupations, and leave the disagreeable tasks undone?”
To this Thorwald replied:
“Let me ask you, Doctor, if you have not an answer to your question in your own industrial system. Do you not always find men to do every required work, no matter how hard and distasteful it may seem to you? I do not mean that the parallel is exact, but this seems to be governed now, as it has always been, by a dispensation of nature. We are born with different tastes and inclinations. Each one chooses his own occupation, and it comes to pass providentially, just as it did in the olden time, that all do not choose alike.”
“Are all equally well educated?”
“No, but all have an equal opportunity. Everyone is given a broad foundation of general information. The mind and hand are both trained and prepared to do good work, and then the choice of occupation is made and the special education begins. But one who has chosen some kind of manual labor as his vocation very often takes up literary or other professional work in addition, and everybody has some kind of study on hand, by which the mind is kept employed. There is no uneducated class among us.”
“Before you reached such nobility of character,” said the doctor, “that panacea for so many ills, I suppose you had troubles enough. You have already intimated as much to us. I wonder if it would not help us to appreciate better your present condition if you should tell us briefly of your experiences in solving so happily some of the problems of your career. I am thinking now more especially of the difficulties of your social and industrial reformation.”
“I will attempt something of the kind,” Thorwald replied, “if you are sure I shall not weary you. Remember to prompt me if I do not follow the lines of most interest to you.
“If you should prefer to read you would find the facts you want fully set forth in our histories. The records are especially full and exhaustive on the subjects you have mentioned, for the important changes, or, at least, the changes whose story will be most instructive to you, came in a time of great intellectual activity. Of the earlier days the history is unfortunately less complete, and still further back the records become uncertain and many are merely legendary.
“Let us begin at a time when civilization was confined to a small portion of the surface of our planet. Society was then crude and unformed. It was a rude, selfish age. But the germ of better things was there, for the gospel of Christ had been planted in the world and was sure to spring into life when its time should come. But meanwhile our evil nature was strong and choked the good seed, and made advancement slow and uncertain. Power was divided among many rulers who were despots, whose principal occupation was war. The people were valued merely for their fighting qualities and enjoyed only such rights and privileges as their cruel masters allowed them. Being slaves themselves, they held in a still more bitter slavery every prisoner captured in war.
“Life was mere animal existence for most of the race, without enjoyment for the present or hope for the future. Education being denied them, there was no mental stimulus to compensate for physical wretchedness, and even their meager religious privileges were accompanied with so many superstitious and unnatural rites that life was relieved of but a little of its burden.
“Gradually power was concentrated in the hands of a few autocrats, nations were consolidated, and war began to be a science. Then some attention was paid to the comfort of the people for the purpose of making them better soldiers. Soon it was found that intelligence was the best weapon a man could carry, and so education, in a very stinted form, was encouraged. This was a fatal blunder on the part of the rulers, for as soon as the mind was unfettered the shackles began to fall from the body, and the days of absolutism were numbered. The spirit of knowledge, once released from its imprisonment, became a dominant power in the world, and as time went on the people demanded a voice in the management of affairs. In this way came constitutional government, which for a long time held sway, and under which there came immense benefits to all. Religion and learning flourished, science and art blessed the race with their bounties, and the world began to be a brighter and better place to live in, comparing the times with the ages of ignorance and cruelty that went before.
“And now the stream of liberty broadened, and before long became a flood that swept away thrones and scepters. Personal government ceased, and the people became their own political masters. The right of suffrage was extended and slavery was abolished, while commerce and the spirit of adventure carried civilization to many parts of the world. Then appeared a swarm of mechanical inventions to lighten the labor of mankind, electricity came with its strong arm and great promise, and easier and swifter transportation by land and sea brought the nations and peoples together to the mutual advantage of all.
“Education, once the possession of the rich and powerful only, now shed its benign influence over the whole people. Whereas, in the early times, learning had caused the downfall of despotic power, it was now considered a principal safeguard of good government, and made compulsory. Wealth was accumulated, luxuries multiplied, and great strides were taken in the material welfare of both nations and individuals. It was an age of intense activity. So rapidly did events follow each other, and such possibilities were anticipated, that enthusiasts, whose heads were turned in the mad whirl, prophesied the immediate opening of the millennium.
“Judged by all the race had previously known of freedom, of prosperity, and of happiness, it was a grand age, and that generation might well be proud of their timely birth. But, looked at from our present standpoint, we can see it was still a day of sadness and sin. We understand, what it was more difficult for them to realize, that the revival of pure religion, awakening the conscience of mankind, had brought about all that was good in their condition, while many evil tendencies had only been exaggerated by their material prosperity. So it was still a very imperfect world. Political freedom they had, but there was no emancipation from the powerful thraldom of selfishness. That spirit held universal sway, governing not only individual action but also the policy of nations.
“One of the highest sentiments known to the times, and some writers placed it even above religion, was love of country. Impassioned oratory was fond of declaring that loyalty to one’s native land was the loftiest emotion the heart could feel, and no voice was found to rebuke the utterance.”
I was a little shocked to hear Thorwald, in his earnest manner, give expression to these words, as though he looked upon such views in a very serious light. I was therefore bold enough to interrupt him with:
“Excuse me, Thorwald, but would not these orators, when their attention was called to their extreme language, acknowledge that love to God was a still higher sentiment?”
“Perhaps they would, for with all the selfishness of the period there was a deep-seated belief in a divine being. But even so, I still would not allow them to be right.”
“Why,” I asked, “is there more than one motive higher than patriotism?”
“Yes, love is higher,” answered Thorwald. “Let me explain. What did love of country mean? At first one’s country was a single family, then a tribe, and later a city, when the measure of one’s patriotism was the measure also of his hatred for everything foreign. In time a state was formed from many cities and towns, and its citizens were taught to look on all other states as enemies. Then these states that had been fighting each other consolidated into a nation, made up, perhaps, of different races and languages. By this time patriotism became a lofty theme, but it was the same spirit essentially as that which prompts the members of two savage tribes to fight to the death through a blind and unreasoning devotion to their leaders. So do you not think that love to all, which can only come from a generous heart, is more to be praised than love to a part, which necessitates enmity to all the rest? I should think it would have puzzled the people of that age sometimes to tell of what their country really consisted. Was their highest allegiance due to their city, or their county, or their state, or their nation?
“To what did this immoderate love of country lead? To a passion for aggrandizement at the expense of others, and what was this but selfishness with a gloss so bright as to make it look like a virtue? It led to the strangling of conscience in national affairs, so as to make wrong seem right, and, more than that, to persistence in a course when it was well known to be wrong. It taught false ideas of honor and made the world one grand dueling field, where the energy of nations was spent in watching for insults from their neighbors, and where the quick blow followed every real or fancied offense.
“Do not imagine, by what I have said, that I would have advised these people to love their country less. On the contrary, I should tell them to love it so much that they could not see it do wrong; to love it so much that they should have no room in their hearts for bitterness toward others; so much that they should strive to have it lead the world in a march toward universal brotherhood. Love for one’s neighbor should not stop at state or national boundaries. Love should know neither caste nor country, but should take in the world, and, I might add for your benefit, other worlds if necessary. Love is a condition of the heart, something within, not without, the man, and when fully developed reaches out to everything that God has made.”
“It seems to me, Thorwald,” I ventured to say, “that these sentiments, which I can see are admirable, belong to your present high development, while we of the earth have reached only about the condition of the people whose traits you have been describing.”
“Then,” resumed Thorwald, “you can perhaps understand another evil of those times. It did not grow directly out of love for country, but that too much lauded sentiment prevented the people from seeing its full enormity. This was the practice of attempting by law to protect the inhabitants of one country by shutting out the goods of all others. This prohibition included both the manufactured articles and natural products, and the means adopted was the placing of a high duty on imports. If the political leaders of a people could succeed in convincing them that such a course would raise wages, increase the opportunities for accumulating money, and make them in general more prosperous, then it was forthwith adopted, entirely without regard to the effect it might have on the rest of the world. It is not at all plain to be seen, from reading the history of those times, that the happiest results always followed the passage of these laws, but the experiment was tried whenever a majority felt that there was a fair expectation of such benefits. The only question considered was whether it would be good policy for their particular country. And if one result of this selfish legislation was the closing of mills and the loss of employment to thousands of workmen in some other part of the world, these facts were paraded in the public prints as though they were matter for rejoicing. Men were yet to learn that the maxim which the politicians were fond of quoting, ‘the greatest good to the greatest number,’ should have a world-wide application to give it any meaning at all.”
While my prejudices were receiving another shock, I knew the doctor was really enjoying this part of Thorwald’s talk. So, in order to draw him out, I said to him, as Thorwald paused:
“Doctor, I think our friend must belong to your party.”
“I should rather belong to his party,” replied the doctor.
“Thank you,” said Thorwald. “That is a compliment which I appreciate; and now I think I have talked long enough for one sitting. Let us get some lunch, and then go out for a good walk.”
Thorwald must have seen that the doctor’s mood was softening, but he probably thought it wise not to speak more directly to him at present.