It was not till the next day that we sat down together again to continue the conversation. Remembering what the doctor had said, Thorwald began:
“In sketching for you the history of that age of activity and change in our career, I was in such fear of wearying you with dry details that I hurried along and omitted the very things to which you refer, Doctor. This people did try all the experiments that suggested themselves, and if you think your patience will endure it I will speak of a few of them.”
We both assured him that we would gladly listen, and that we considered ourselves fortunate in having such an instructor. He was merely telling us about a certain period in the history of Mars, but if he had known how nearly he had been coming to the course of events on the earth he would not have wondered that we were so eager to hear all he had to say.
“Quite early in the labor difficulties,” he resumed, “state arbitration had its day; a short one, however, for the appointment of the arbitrators soon became a matter of partisan politics, and their influence was gone. Whichever side was in power could appoint a board that would be prejudiced in favor of that side from the start, and when the trouble came the other party would not have confidence enough in their judgment to accept their decision.
“Next, laws were passed making arbitration compulsory, but allowing the arbitrators to be chosen at the time of the strike, the employer to name one, the workmen one, and these two to find the third. This did some good as long as only first class men were selected, but a few flagrant cases occurred where the arbitrators, who were allowed to inspect the books of the concern, made public the private affairs of the business, to the great injury of the owners. This brought the law into disfavor, and, as there was no provision for enforcing the decisions, it came to pass that they were often disregarded, and so, before long, this plan of settling disputes was also abandoned.
“For a good many years no other subject so completely filled the public mind as this very troublesome one, and people of all professions were continually suggesting remedies. It was held by many to be a good working theory that the employees in every business, whether industrial, mercantile, or financial, were entitled to some share in the profits over and above their compensation in wages. This was disputed by the large majority of the employers, who claimed that their contract with the workmen was a simple one, by which they agreed to work so many hours for so much pay, and as this was their due even if the business proved a losing one, so they had no just claim to anything more if it were successful the employees had nothing to do or say about the question of profits. On the other hand, where a number of men had, by long and faithful service, a strict regard for the welfare of the business, and loyalty to all of the employer’s interests, helped to build up a great industry, an increasing number of people, not only the wage earners but many others not directly interested, felt that the workmen had fairly gained, if not a share in the proprietorship, at least some consideration from the owners. This feeling was especially strong in cases where the laws of the land had materially aided the success of the business, and where the profits were unusually large.
“I want to say, in passing, that it is by such indications as the existence of this sentiment that we can see, all through those troublous times, the gradual improvement of the race.
“As some of the employers came to be impressed with the same thought, they began in a quiet way trying the experiment of giving their men a bonus at the end of the year, proportioned to the amount of wages they earned. In some cases this gave place after a time to the plan of making the workmen regular partners, and giving them a certain percentage of the profits in lieu of wages. But when a time of general depression came and the percentage did not amount to as much as their old pay had been, the men felt as though they had been led into a trap, and after they had endured the situation for a time they were glad to return to the former system.
“Another scheme that was extensively tried was cooperation among the workingmen, both in manufacturing and mercantile business. The argument, which was a plausible one, was that the expense of big salaries for management, together with the enormous profits, would all be available for dividends. The results showed that in the long run the profits, in all but exceptional cases, were not more than a fair interest on the investment, and as to the salaries, it was found that financial and business ability was scarce and costly, and yet necessary to success. The associations of workingmen were willing to put their money into buildings, machinery, and stock, and the men were ready to work hard themselves, but they were not willing to pay for skill in management, and so their failure was inevitable. At the same time they still held to the opinion, which was at the bottom of these experiments, that under the old system the owners and managers of the business got too much of the profits and the operatives too little. Is there anything else, Doctor, that you think these people might have tried?”
“I am not satisfied,” the doctor answered, “with their efforts at profit-sharing. It seems to me that that scheme, under proper management, ought to have brought the two classes together by giving them a common interest in every enterprise, and so to have gradually done away with all bitterness and strife. Employers might have used a part of their surplus profits in building better houses for their men, in giving them instruction as to a nobler way of living, in opening libraries and bath-houses and cooking schools and savings banks, in keeping them insured against sickness and death, and in doing a thousand things to show the men that they were thoughtful of their comfort and welfare. If the workmen could discover by such means that the employers were really their friends, I think it must have disarmed their hatred and antagonism. Then if, with these benefits, they could have received in money a small percentage above their usual wages, they would certainly have repaid such friendliness by a service so faithful and an industry so constant as to more than make up, in increased profits, for all the philanthropic expenditures.”
“Doctor,” said Thorwald, “I am pleased to see you take such an interest in this subject. You talk as though you had thought of it before, and you have outlined almost the exact course pursued by the people of whom we are speaking. Hundreds of such experiments were tried and persisted in for a long time, both before the serious labor troubles began and after. Among their strongest advocates were men of theory in the professions, who were actuated by high motives but did not appreciate the practical difficulties. They were pretty sure they could get along with the workingmen without so much friction. But the profit-sharing scheme also had the aid of many excellent men among the employers, as I have said. However, for one reason or another, the experiments all came to naught. In some cases great expense was entered into to provide comforts for the workmen, and after a few prosperous years depression followed and the proprietors found they had undertaken too much. Several large failures, brought about by such lack of judgment, helped to produce disappointment and discouragement. Then it was found by experience that the evil-disposed among the workmen were not to be converted into honest, industrious, and faithful employees in any such wholesale manner. Making men over could not be done in the block. There never had been any difficulty in dealing with the sober, reasonable, well-intentioned men. The trouble had all come from the vicious, the incompetent, and the shiftless ones. And the more privileges this class obtained, the more they demanded. If their working day was made shorter in order to give them the opportunity of taking advantage of the free facilities for improving their minds, they loudly demanded another hour each day and frequent holidays, with the liberty of spending their leisure time as best suited their tastes. If they were given a share of the profits, they complained because it was so small a share, and thought they were being cheated when the proprietors would not let them inspect the books to see if the profits were not larger than represented. Then as partners they claimed the right to be consulted in the management of the business. Such demands brought on disputes, of course; and the natural result was that strikes were not unknown even in these humanitarian establishments. As the labor organizations were then in full blast the better class of men were drawn into the strikes, which sometimes became so serious that the owners were compelled to give up their philanthropic efforts and go back to the old system of giving what they were obliged to and getting what they could in return.
“In general, employers found they had still an unanswered problem on their hands. An undue spirit of independence had been fostered among a class of uneducated, ill-natured, and thick-headed workmen, and society was rocked to its foundation in the effort to keep them within bounds.”
“Will you let me make another suggestion, Thorwald?” asked the doctor. “Why did not all classes approach this difficulty in a businesslike way and work together to remove it? Why did not the state see that the right of private contract was a safe and useful one for all sides, and cease to infringe on it by law? Why did not the public teachers make a combined and continued effort to instill a conciliatory spirit into both sides, and to show how peace and brotherly feeling would be a mutual blessing? Why did not the employers—not one here and there, but all of them—treat their men as they would like to be treated in their place, make friends with them, talk reason even to unreasonable men, speak kindly to the unfriendly ones, urge the value of sobriety upon the intemperate, teach the incompetent, sympathize with the unfortunate, try to reclaim the vicious instead of turning them off harshly, and in every way strive to prove themselves to the men as beings of the same flesh and blood with them? And why did not the workingmen receive what was done for them with the right spirit—give up their envious and suspicious feelings, improve every precious chance of getting knowledge, work for their employers as they would for themselves, cease to use the power of the unions unjustly, cultivate amicable relations with everybody, and try in all possible ways to make true men of themselves? If the men had worked along this line they would have found they were bettering themselves in every way faster than they could by strikes and conflicts.”
“Ah! Doctor,” replied Thorwald, “you have now the true solution. Such action would have annihilated the difficulties in a day. But to suppose every employer and every workman capable of following such good advice is to suppose that the world had then reached an almost ideal condition. The very existence and character of the troubles show how imperfect men were. It was a common saying then that human nature was the same as it had been in the earliest days and that it would never change while the world should stand. This was a mistaken view, for there had been a great change. The heart had lost much of its selfishness and had begun to grasp in some slight measure a sense of that distant but high destiny to which it had been called.”
“If the world,” said the doctor, “was not good enough for these troubles to be cured by kindness, I am anxious to know how they were healed. I am sure you can tell us, for those people were your remote ancestors and you are far removed from such vexations now.”
“That is true,” said Thorwald. “I can tell you how this social problem was solved, and how our race has found release from the many dangers that have threatened us. It has not been by man’s device or invention. But God, whose arm alone has been our defense, has always called men to his aid, and thus, in his own time and way, help has come in every crisis. The most important changes in society have been brought about gradually and without violence, and with that hint I think we had better leave this subject for the present. Some day I want to go over with you briefly the history of the work and influence of the gospel of Jesus in the world, and it will then be fitting to refer again to the period of which we have just now been speaking.
“I am sure you will find it a great relief for me to change the subject, or stop talking.”
“We will not object to your changing the subject,” said I, “whenever you think it best, but we shall try to keep you talking till we know a great deal more about Mars than we do now.”
I went downstairs the next morning before the doctor was ready, and when I met Thorwald I said, without thought: “A fine morning.”
“Yes,” he replied, “all our mornings are fine. I do not mean that the sun is always shining or that we do not have clouds and a variety of sky effects, but we know the clouds can be depended on not to give rain till night.”
“Do you not lose something by having a perpetual calm?” I asked. “For I understand the rain in the night comes only in gentle showers. In our rough world some of us enjoy the grandeur of the storm.”
“How about those who are exposed to its fury?” asked Thorwald in reply. “I do not see how anyone can really enjoy what is sure to be bringing sorrow or even inconvenience to others. Could a mother take pleasure in a tempest if she knew her son was in danger of shipwreck from it? Why should it change her feeling to know her son was by her side and that it was only strangers that were in danger?”
“But,” continued Thorwald, “are you and your friend ready for an excursion to-day? If you are, I propose to give you a new experience.”
“We shall be delighted to accompany you, and as I see breakfast is ready I will go up and tell the doctor to hurry.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” exclaimed Thorwald. “You must try to learn to live as we do, and you will remember I said the other day that we are never in haste. If, for example, it were Zenith who was late, I should never think of calling to her to hurry, for I should know she must have a good excuse for staying. Her liberty of action is as valuable to her as mine to me, and however long she might keep me waiting, I should feel sure that her action was the result of right motives and correct reasoning. If the doctor does not appear, we can easily postpone our excursion to to-morrow. There would be no lack of occupation for to-day.”
“What a delightful feeling it must be,” I said, “to be always free from hurry. It is the commonest experience in our imperfect state for one to start a few minutes late in the morning, and then be on a constant jump all day to make them up. One of the evils of our driving age is the wear and tear of our nerves in what we consider a necessary haste to get there.”
“Get where?” asked Thorwald.
“To get anywhere or to do anything that we set out to accomplish,” I answered.
“I fear,” said Thorwald, “that I have talked too much about Mars and not insisted enough on hearing about the earth. Suppose something should happen to break off your visit?”
“You wouldn’t miss much, Thorwald.”
“We certainly should regret exceedingly not learning many things that you could tell us,” he said.
“Yes,” I answered, “but you cannot profit by our experiences, while we of the earth are in a condition where we need all the help and advice you have for us. If we ever return to our home we want to tell all about your advanced civilization and how you have overcome the evils that vex our race. But I wonder why the doctor doesn’t come. I think I will go and see, but I promise not to interfere with his liberty of action.” I soon returned with my friend, and we all went to breakfast. The doctor said he would not eat much, as he felt somewhat indisposed. Here was something new in the life of this household, and each one began to express sympathy and ask what could be done. The doctor was amused, and I said I thought a good, hearty breakfast would make him all right. But Thorwald insisted that something unusual should be done, although his inexperience was so great that nothing feasible suggested itself at first. Zenith was in favor of all repairing to the library, hunting up the histories of the days when people were ill, and finding out the proper remedy for his ailment. This would have been a logical proceeding, but I thought to myself that they did not understand the value of time in such cases and that the doctor would probably either recover or die while they were at work.
As I did not appear to be any more alarmed than my companion was, the excitement soon subsided. But Thorwald was not satisfied yet, and after some further thought his face brightened and he asked me if a glass of good wine would not be the thing for the doctor. When I replied that it would probably not hurt him, Thorwald told his son to go and bring up a bottle of the oldest wine in the cellar, and soon not only the patient but the members of the family and myself were all partaking. No more was heard after this of the doctor’s indisposition, and Thorwald no doubt felicitated himself that he had effected a cure. The situation was rather suggestive to me, and while we were drinking, and eating our breakfast, I could not refrain from saying:
“If some of our friends on the earth could see us now, Thorwald, we would be discredited in all that we might say about your higher condition. It would do no good to expatiate on your ripe character and on your attainments in knowledge and virtue. I fear they would not believe much of it if they knew that you not only drank wine yourselves, but encouraged its use by giving it to your guests.”
“Why,” said Thorwald, “you could tell them the wine was brought out to be used as a medicine, and that the rest of us drank to keep the doctor company. But when you see your friends you had better tell them the truth at once, that while we all take wine here frequently this is the only instance where I have ever known it to be used medicinally.”
“They would tell us,” said the doctor, “that you have made one mistake at least, and that it is a dangerous thing to have wine in the house, and especially to give it to children.”
“He would have a very gross and imperfect conception of our character,” said Thorwald, “who should have the thoughts which you express. I can judge something of the nature of the feeling which you say exists on the earth, however, for only a few days ago I was reading a full account of the different temperance movements on our planet. Few subjects in our history are more interesting. Do not despise the temperance reformers, and if you think they are sometimes too radical you can afford to excuse that for the sake of the absolute good they accomplish. All through the early part of our career there was a perpetual warfare against the drinking habit. At first wine was an ordinary article of food, and in some countries more commonly used for drinking than water. There was much abuse of it, but in general people used it as a matter of course, without thinking they were any more responsible for the drunkards than they were for the intemperate in eating. But the evil of overdrinking increased, and some religious reformers found that the easiest way to check it was to forbid all use of intoxicants. Here is an extreme example that I have read of what one such reformer taught: ‘If a single drop of alcoholic liquor should fall into a well one hundred and fifty feet deep, and if the well should afterwards be filled up and grass grow over it, and a sheep should eat of the grass, then my followers must not partake of that mutton.’ Could any of your prohibitionists be more radical than that?
“In later times many kinds of strong and poisonous drinks were made, and untold harm was done by their use. Drunkenness was the most fruitful source of crime and misery; it, more than any other cause, filled the jails, the almshouses and the insane asylums; it kept men in poverty and squalor; it scattered families and changed men, and sometimes women, too, into beasts. No class or profession was free from the evil, for it disqualified the scholar and statesman for their duties just as it unfitted the laborer for his daily task. It helped to debauch politics and public morals, while it brought disgrace and ruin to private reputation and character. More money was lost by it than was spent to educate and Christianize the world, and it cost more precious lives than war and pestilence combined. Being a crime utterly selfish and debasing, as well as extremely tenacious of its hold upon the individual life, it was almost the greatest enemy to the spread of the gospel.
“Was there anything in the way of good to be said of the drinking habit to offset all this harm? Men drank to be sociable and companionable and to please their friends, and when the habit was fastened on them found they had lost every friend of value. They took to their cups to drown their sorrow, and found a sorrow more poignant among the dregs. They began the moderate use of stimulants to give strength to the body or activity to the brain, and discovered when too late that their abuse had brought down in common ruin both body and mind. No, it is impossible that anyone should ever attempt to make an argument in favor of drunkenness.
“The more active the age the more prevalent was this evil, but the greater, also, was the determination to overthrow it. When the conscience was quickened by the growth of Christianity and men’s lives became more valued, many persistent efforts were made to stamp out the crime of intoxication.
“Numerous societies were organized and good men and women entered heartily into the work. Every argument was used to show the danger of the drink habit and to teach the beauty and value of sobriety, appeal being made both to the reason and the conscience. The power of the state was invoked and punishment administered to the drunkards, while the manufacture and sale of intoxicants were restricted and sometimes prohibited. We see how firm a hold this evil had on all classes when we read that very often public sentiment would not permit these beneficent laws to be enforced. In all great reforms the apathy of a large part of the people has been a most discouraging feature.
“Of course it was never intrinsically wrong to drink a glass of wine, but in view of the enormous amount of sorrow and trouble caused by overdrinking, can it be wondered at that many earnest souls came to abhor everything in the nature of intoxicating drink, and to practice and insist on total abstinence? Oh, I can tell you if I lived on the earth now I should be a radical of the radicals on this subject.”
“Notwithstanding which,” said I, “here you are sitting at your own table and pouring into our glasses this delicious wine.”
As a smile passed around at this remark it was Zenith who said:
“Do you see anything incongruous in that?”
I paused a moment to choose a reply, when the doctor spoke up with:
“Far be it from us, Zenith, with our earth-born ideas, to even seem to pass judgment in this happy place, but I presume my companion was trying to imagine what our temperance friends, who do not know you, would say.”
“As for us,” said Thorwald, “I trust we shall be justified in your eyes at least, before we are through, but let us inquire about those whom you call your temperance friends. I suppose they would have a poor opinion of a man who was loud in his public advocacy of temperance and yet drank wine at home.”
“I think,” I replied, “that I have heard some such term as ‘hypocrite’ applied to men of that class.”
“And yet,” continued Thorwald, “they would think it perfectly proper for a man to keep razors away from his children, but at the same time have one or more concealed about the house somewhere for his own use. It might very easily be argued that razors were dangerous things under any conditions; the children might find them by accident and do great harm to themselves or others; the man himself, though accustomed to their moderate use, might, in a moment of overconfidence, go too far and inflict a serious injury on himself or even a fatal one; and, further, it might be said that razors are of no real use to men, for nature knows best what is needed for protection, and if hair on the face was not necessary for the well-being of man it would not grow there. This argument could be pushed until, under an awakened public sentiment, the manufacture and sale of razors might be prohibited.
“I have said this to introduce a plea for tolerance of opinion. You were created, I have no doubt, as we were, with different temperaments and inclinations, which, with various kinds of education, produce different opinions. You cannot all have the same mind on any given subject, nor all approve of the same methods of reform, but you will make but little progress in true temperance until you can bury minor differences and all work together. You must learn that everything that has been made, whether produced by the direct hand of God or through the agency of man, has its proper use. Do you say that some people would express the wish that everything intoxicating could be destroyed from the earth, as having no proper use? All the evil in it will surely be removed, but the good will remain. At present it is one of the stubborn obstructions in your thorny path. If your way were to be suddenly made smooth and easy your race would never learn self-denial, the only road that leads to a higher state. Your present imperfect life is a daily conflict, and it is only by battles won and temptations overcome that you will ever be built up into virtuous and God-like characters.
“I said you must be tolerant. I can conceive that a man might feel perfectly safe in the use of wine and have no scruples of any kind against it, and yet be sincere in urging people in general to totally abstain from it on account of the harm some might receive. This man must not be denied a place in the temperance ranks. Another might think it a sin to touch a drop. One might believe the only right way to deal with the subject would be to prohibit the sale entirely, another would think more might be done by some other method of restriction. All that I have read of our experiences goes to prove that the people of the earth will never drive out this evil till all shades of temperance people get Christianity enough into their hearts to unite on a broad platform and work as one army with a single purpose.”
“Will you not tell us,” I asked, “how the reform was finally effected on Mars?”
“Like all other true reforms,” replied Thorwald, “it came about through the sanctified commonsense of the church of God, not suddenly by any means, but gradually and only after many years of severe struggle. A combined effort of all good people, especially women, working with spiritual as well as moral weapons, produced an impression which was lasting. When men were taught from their childhood the dangers which accompany the drinking habit; when one class of people denied themselves all indulgence for the sake of the class who were weak; when drinking became a disgrace, and those who could not keep sober were taken in charge by the state and permanently separated from the rest of the community; when the church awoke to its full duty and the rich poured out their money; when men and women forgot fashion and pride and caste in their love for the practical work of Christianity; when the power of the gospel had strengthened men’s will and had begun to plant in every heart a love for something purer than fleshly appetite; when the spiritual part of our nature began to gain the ascendency and to occupy the place for which it was made; then intemperance loosed its hold and soon disappeared, never to trouble us again.
“You see it was a long road with us and I have no doubt it will prove so on the earth, but do not on that account lose courage. And let me counsel both of you to join the ranks of the reformers when you get home.
“Although intemperate drinking has long been unknown among us, as well as all other gross imperfections of character, we still make good wine, and no more danger is felt in drinking it than in using milk. Everybody can have all he wants of it. Our tables may be supplied with the luxuries of every clime, but we have learned that it is best for us to be temperate in both eating and drinking. I am sorry your temperance friends, as you say, would not approve of us, but when you see them I trust you will do what you can to let them understand that such temptations as this of which we have been speaking belong to the childhood of a race, and that the people of Mars have long since passed out of infancy.”
Mona did not feel obliged to be present at our conversations after she had explained her position to us, but I saw her many times every day. I tried to respect her feeling and avoid the subject which still occupied so many of my thoughts. I fought against my passion, which I told myself was unmanly, since it was not returned in the good, old-fashioned way. What man of spirit would submit to the enchantment of one who, while professing she loved him with her whole heart, declared in the same breath that she also loved equally well half a dozen others? I tried to make up my mind to shake off the spell and be free. To this end I endeavored to examine my heart with the purpose of discovering if possible the secret of Mona’s power over me.
I was sure I could not be weak enough to be held so firmly by her beauty alone, lovely as she was. Her mental equipment did not seem to furnish the ground for such a deep attachment, and I could not believe that I was good enough to be so powerfully drawn to her by the inimitable character of her spiritual nature. What, then, was the attraction? It was not far to seek. What was it that first moved me, before I had ever seen her? What accomplishment was it that always came to my mind first when I thought of her? In short, what would Mona, silent, be? I could hardly imagine. But then, she was not silent, and I knew well enough that, struggle as I night, I never could successfully resist the subtle charm of that voice.
So, as I saw no escape for me, I next began to study how I could infuse into Mona’s love for me something more of the personal element. How could I teach her to love me just a little for myself alone? Evidently she had been educated in an atmosphere of the most uncompromising monotony. Where everybody loved everybody what chance could there be for lovers? I wondered what would move Mona. Some heroic action which should appeal to her sympathies would probably do it. She had been pleased with the part I had taken in discovering her retreat in the moon, and perhaps something else in that line would help me. But what was there one could possibly do in Mars which could be called heroic? I should have to ask Thorwald if he could think of anything I could do to arouse the imagination of Mona and bring her a little closer to me.
Not long after I had been indulging in these conflicting thoughts I had a more promising opportunity than I had hoped for of showing Mona that I could do something besides make love to her.
One morning she came to me and said she would like to go out for a long ride. As I never lost an opportunity of being alone with her I eagerly accepted this one and hurried off with her, lest any other member of the household should appear and propose to accompany us. Mona was as agreeable as ever, and chirruped away in her musical style as we walked down the hill in search of just the right carriage. We soon found one which pleased us, and as I was by this time perfectly at home in the management of these vehicles, we started off at a brisk pace along a road which took us through a charming section of the country. It made me happy to reflect that this pleasant ride was at Mona’s suggestion. Although she had peculiar views about my manner of wooing, she did not shun my company, and I could not refuse to believe she really loved me as she said. I turned on more power, and as our speed became exhilarating I said to my companion:
“Mona, they will think we have eloped.”
“Excuse me,” came out in sweet notes, “you will have to explain.”
“Dear me, were your people so very proper that you don’t even know the meaning of that word? Didn’t they ever do anything wrong?”
“Oh, is it wrong to elope?”
“That depends entirely on the point of view. But I cannot explain further without bringing up the subject which you have forbidden me to speak about.”
“What subject is that? I have forgotten that I have ever put you under such a prohibition.”
“Why, the subject that is always nearest my heart and nearest my lips, the subject of my great love for you, dear Mona, so different from my regard for any other person.”
“Oh, I remember now, but I assure you I had forgotten all about it.” And here her voice suddenly lost much of its tenderness and assumed a character which she rarely employed, as she continued, “But let us not discuss that topic again. I already know all you have to say on it, and why should we waste our time with such useless talk when there are so many more valuable things to occupy our attention?”
“Forgive me,” I exclaimed. “If you will promise me not to sing in that tone again I will talk about anything you wish.”
“I agree,” she responded, and never did her accents sound sweeter.
Somehow I was not so much affected by Mona’s coldness this time as before, and I was able to recover my cheerfulness at once. I then determined to give her no occasion for another rebuff if I could help it, but to do all in my power to entertain her with what she called sensible conversation. There were many things connected with society on the earth in which she took a lively interest, and I made a great effort to talk myself into her favor, so that she would not say again that she preferred the doctor’s company to mine.
We had been riding a couple of hours or more, generally at a swift pace, when, from a high point in the road, we saw we were approaching the shore of the sea or a large lake.
Mona was so delighted with the view that I said:
“If we can find any kind of a boat on the shore we will have a ride on the water.”
“Can you manage a boat?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, if it is not too large.”
“But it may be some new kind, something you are not acquainted with.”
“Then I shall have to study it out. But you are not afraid to go on the water with me, are you?”
“If there is anything in this pleasant world to give me fear it is water in such mass as that,” she replied, stretching out her hand toward the sea.
“But I thought you were afraid of nothing,” said I. “You have taught me the word,” she responded, “and I hardly know its meaning yet, but I must acknowledge that I shrink from the ocean. Its vastness, so much water, overwhelms me. You know it is many, many years since the moon had any large bodies of water.”
“So it is,” I exclaimed, “and everything will be new to you. What sport we shall have, and I shall make it my business to see that the water does not harm you.”
We hurried down to the shore and found the prettiest little boat I had ever seen all ready for us, as if we had ordered it for the occasion. It was evidently intended for children, but was fitted with both sails and oars, and also, I was glad to find, with a little screw and an electric apparatus to turn it. I was overjoyed with our good fortune, and prepared at once to embark. But Mona plainly hesitated. She kept up her musical chatter and tried to be as cheerful as ever, but I saw she was not as eager for the trip as I was. I did not let her see that I noticed her manner, however, and went on with my preparations. When I had brought the boat around so that she could step into it conveniently, she looked in my face, and asked in a voice which trembled with excitement:
“Are you sure you understand how to manage it? It is all so strange to me.”
She wanted to decline to make the venture, I thought, but her courage was too great. Now was the time when I proved myself still a son of the earth, with fallible judgment and a will too much engrossed with self. I had been wishing for an opportunity to do some difficult thing for Mona, something noble which should win her affection, and here, when the chance offered, I did not recognize it. The truly heroic action would have been to respect Mona’s feeling and give up the idea entirely, for I knew she had a strong aversion to trusting herself on the water. But it was really my own pleasure and not hers that I was seeking, for in answer to her question I said hurriedly:
“Why, certainly. It is as easy to control as the carriage we have just left. We’ll not put up the sails if you say so, and I promise to bring you back all safe and sound in a short time. I am sure you will enjoy the new experience, and then I want to hear how your voice sounds on the water.”
“Well, I will go,” she said, “on your promise to protect me; but I have the queerest sensation, I don’t know what to call it. Do you think it is fear?”
“Oh, no, it can’t be that, because there is nothing to fear. Are you ready now? Let me take your hand.”
As she stepped in and felt the motion she realized how unstable the water really was, and sank down at my feet, emitting an involuntary note of not very joyful quality. But she showed great bravery and, as I helped her to a seat, she said she would no doubt enjoy it after a while. I now shoved the boat out and used the oars a few minutes, but soon tiring of that exercise, I looked into the operation of the electric motor and found it quite simple. Turning on the power, the screw worked to perfection and sent the boat through the water in good shape.
Mona was now recovering her spirits, seeing that no harm came to her, and at my request she sang some of her native songs. This was delightful, and I resigned myself to the full enjoyment of the occasion. It seemed to me that the excitement she had just passed through added a new and pleasing quality to her voice, if that were possible. As I sat listening and musing, my memory carried me back to the first time I had heard this marvelous singer, and I could not help contrasting the two situations. I felicitated myself on my present happiness, for when Mona was singing I wanted nothing more. I seemed to forget then that she would not listen to my tale of love, or if I thought of it I attached no consequence to it. The voice seemed to be a thing by itself, and a thing which in some way appeared to belong wholly to me, whether Mona was mine or not.
She stopped singing after a while and asked if we had better not start for home. To which I replied:
“I turned the boat around some time ago, and we are now headed directly for the place where we found it.”
When she expressed surprise at this I steered about in various directions to show her how easily it was done, and then some mischievous spirit, which. I myself must have imported into Mars, put it into my head to try and see how fast our little vessel could go. My idea was partly to satisfy my own curiosity and partly to treat Mona to as great a variety of sensations as possible. The electric apparatus was extremely sensitive, and a slight movement of the lever made an instant increase in our speed. A little more, and we began to go through the water at quite a handsome rate. I enjoyed it immensely, and if Mona did not like it she had pluck enough not to make it known. This emboldened me to put on still more power, which sent the boat ploughing along at such a velocity that the spray flew all about us and the boat shook so that we kept our seats with difficulty. Not knowing what I might be led to do next, and being in reality terribly frightened, if she had only known what the feeling was, Mona now mildly expostulated with:
“Isn’t this a little too fast? Something might happen.”
“Don’t be afraid,” I replied. “I’ll take care of you. The doctor must have taught you that last word, as it is not used here. You know nothing ever happens in Mars. Everything goes along in the even tenor of its way, moved by laws which are fixed and certain. This boat, you see, is strong and well able to bear the strain. The water is smooth and contains no hidden rocks, and it is perfectly easy to steer clear of the shore, which you see is some distance off yet. But now that I have given you this little excitement, which you will not regret after it is all over, I will stop the current which produces this great force and bring in an artificial law, as it were, to override the natural law now in operation. Just look at this lever and see how easily it is done.”
I seized the handle, intending to shut off the power suddenly, but by some unaccountable mistake I turned it the wrong way. Instantly I saw the bow of the boat jump out of the water and go over our heads, and then Mona and I realized that something had actually happened on Mars, for we were both buried under the boat.
I was the first to extricate myself and come to the surface, and, not seeing my companion, I thought she was surely lost. I might save her yet, though, and was just about to dive under the boat again, when her head appeared insight, only a little way from me, her eyes wide open and, really, a smile on her face.
“Can you swim, Mona?” I cried, excitedly.
She had not the breath to answer or else thought my question unnecessary. But I soon found my own answer when I saw her head sinking again just as I had reached her. I clutched her, and, as I held her head above the water, I began to understand that I had something on my hands to fulfill my promise to take care of her. At this instant I saw one of the oars from the boat floating a little way from us and managed to secure it, holding Mona with one arm and swimming with the other. I now helped my companion to half support herself by grasping the oar, while for the rest she was induced to throw an arm over my shoulder. In this way I was left free to make what progress I could through the water, and I lost no time in swimming toward the shore, since there was no hope of our being able to make use of the boat, which now lay, bottom up, on the surface.
All this was done without a word from Mona, although I had been talking to her freely, giving her directions and assuring her of my ability to save her. As this was her first experience in drowning, she had evidently been trying to sing under the water and had found it so difficult that she had determined to keep her lips closed till she was well out of it. With this thought in my mind I said to her as soon as we were under way:
“Your head is so far above water now that you can open your mouth with perfect safety. You see I can talk, and my head is much lower than yours.”
She was so situated that I could not see her face easily, and therefore I do not know whether she ventured to unstop her lips or not, but no sound came from them if she did. Perhaps the water still filled her ears and made her deaf. So I called aloud:
“Can you hear me, Mona?”
No answer in words, but I imagined I felt a slight pressure of her hand on my shoulder. I toiled on, musing over her strange behavior, till it occurred to me to try a subject which had never failed to bring a response from her.
“I hope this will make you more affectionate to me, dear Mona,” I said; and then, as she made no answer, I continued:
“If we reach the shore alive and get home safe you will love me more than you do Foedric, will you not?”
I thought this would bring an answer, and I was not disappointed, except in the manner in which it came. Not the faintest note escaped from her lips, but a throb of feeling came along her arm, and her hand grasped my shoulder with unmistakable vigor. I suppose she thought I would understand what this answer meant, but I was puzzled. It might mean so many things. Perhaps her heart was softening toward me and she was so much affected by her love for me, stronger and deeper than she had ever thought it could be, that she dared not speak. With this possibility in view I began to feel very tender toward her and to experience the pleasure of one whose love is returned in full measure.
But then her answer might have quite a different meaning. What if she were telling me that she had determined never to speak another word on that subject, and that my question was an offense to her? Surely she had told me often enough to talk about more sensible things, and perhaps this was only a new and forcible way of repeating the same injunction. I reflected, too, that it was hardly fair to take advantage of the present situation to force upon her a prohibited topic of conversation.
There was another possible meaning to her manner of answering me. Perhaps she was indignant because I had insisted on her getting into the boat with me against her wish, and held me strictly responsible for all that followed. With this view in mind I imagined she was saying to herself:
“I want nothing to say to you. I accept your assistance because I cannot get to shore without you, but when once out of this dreadful water I shall have nothing more to do with you.”
To place against the latter theory I had the fact that Mona’s face had beamed with pleasure all the time I was getting her fixed so I could swim freely. Dwelling upon this memory my mind returned to thoughts of love, and I felt that I must try once more to start that familiar song. So I said:
“Forgive me, Mona, if I have offended you, and let me hear your voice again. You are too good to punish me so severely for my fault in getting you into this trouble. Will you not cheer me with a few notes while I bear you safely to the shore?”
Again a pressure of the hand but no expression from the lips, and I was left to further conjecture over the strange mood my companion was in. I swam leisurely, so as not to exhaust my strength, and as there was a considerable distance to go I had plenty of time to think after I had found it impossible to induce Mona to enter into conversation. Although so near, my companion seemed far away, and I became extremely lonesome. In trying to determine what had occasioned such a mishap in a world where I had been taught to believe such things entirely out of date, I came to the conclusion that the Martians owe their freedom from many misfortunes to their ripened characters, rather than to anything peculiar in their physical laws. With my imperfect development I had made an error in judgment in taking Mona upon the water, and with my untrained mind I had simply made a mistake when I turned the lever of the electric apparatus the wrong way. The Martians had reached such high attainments in every direction that it was practically impossible for them to make mistakes. Thus had they freed themselves from many of the vexations which harass the people of a younger world.
I was fortunately able to endure the strain of the great task which I had undertaken, and finally succeeded in bringing my precious burden to land and helping her to a place of safety. We were both pretty well fatigued with our exertions, but felt no danger from our wet clothes, because of the mild and balmy air.
Mona’s behavior still perplexed me. Her manner was delightfully pleasant and familiar. Now that we were safe she appeared to appreciate the humorous part of the situation, and I was loath to believe that she could or would affect such good nature if she were harboring unpleasant feelings toward me. But I could not account for her continued silence, for as yet no word nor sound of any kind had come from her lips. Her face and hands, however, were continually in motion, and after I had overcome my usual stupidity I discovered that she was actually making signs.
“Why, Mona,” I exclaimed, “can’t you speak?”
She shook her head.
“Nor sing, I mean?”
Another shake.
“Do you mean to say you have lost your voice?”
A nod.
For a moment a shadow settled upon her face, occasioned, no doubt, by my falling countenance, for I must have shown something of the great shock to my feelings. Mona without the voice of Mona! I could not at once realize the depth of my loss. And now it was her turn to attempt to restore my spirits, as we fell back to our original mode of conversing. I urged her to make an effort to sing, and she told me she had tried many times, and that it had grieved her to be so unsocial while I was toiling so hard to save her life.
“Why, my dear,” I answered, “I thought you were angry with me for speaking to you again about my love.”
Her reply was a look so full of tenderness that I was almost sure that, if she had had her voice, she would have used it more kindly than before. Still it may have been only compassion.
By this time we had found our carriage and were on our way home, and I am sure that if, on our arrival, our friends had judged from our looks, they would have supposed I, and not Mona, had experienced a great misfortune.
Avis had returned to her distant home several days before this, but Antonia and Foedric were at Thorwald’s when we arrived, and I had the unpleasant task of relating to the whole household our sad experience. I did not spare myself, although they were all kind enough to offer every manner of excuse for me. Everybody showed sympathy with Mona in all possible ways, but she herself still exhibited the same sunny disposition as ever, although the house seemed quiet without her bright and happy song.