We were much impressed by Thorwald’s earnest words and manner, and we began to realize that the civilization of Mars was above our most exalted conception. I had been so carried away by the topics which I had feared were going to be uninteresting that I had lost some of the restlessness of the morning, but as our sitting broke up and I noticed it was drawing near noon my anxious thoughts returned. Finding Fronda and learning from her from what direction Avis might be expected to come, I determined to go out alone and see if I could meet her. I managed to get away without the fact being noticed, as far as I could discover, and started down the walk at a brisk pace. The houses were a good distance apart and were all attractive enough to draw out both wonder and admiration, had my mind been in a condition to appreciate their beauty. Occasionally an electric carriage would pass me, but the first pedestrian I met was a woman of noble bearing and about the age of Fronda, I should judge. After all I had heard of the physical and mental perfections of the inhabitants of Mars, I did not expect to see any but good-looking people. In this we were never disappointed, though still there were gradations of beauty even there. This woman whom I had met must have been at one time strikingly handsome, and if time had robbed her of any of that quality it had made it up by giving her a rare sweetness that fully atoned for the loss. As I was about to pass her she looked at me with such a pleasant and agreeable curiosity that I stopped and said:
“Pardon me, but may I ask you a question?”
“Certainly,” she answered in a charming voice, “and I shall be very glad to help you in any way. I recognize that you are one of the earth-dwellers, and I have met your companion the doctor.”
“Is it possible? I wonder he has not told me of such good fortune. But this is the question I wanted to ask you. As you came along this path did you see a young girl named Avis?”
“I did not, I am sure. I have met no young girl, and I could not see any one by the name of Avis.”
“Why so?”
“Because there is no such girl.”
“Excuse me,” I said, “but probably you do not know her. I have just come from one of the houses yonder, where she is expected about noon, and I came out to try and meet her.”
“Do you know her?” she asked.
“No—or, rather, I hope so; I cannot tell till I see her.”
“That’s curious. Have you ever met her?”
“I am not sure. I hope I have. I cannot explain it to you just now, but the minute I put my eyes on Avis I shall be able to answer all your questions.”
“But her name cannot be Avis.”
“Oh, yes, it is. It is quite plain that you do not know her.”
“I beg your pardon,” she returned, “there is but one person in all this country by the name of Avis.”
“Then that is the very person I am trying to find.”
“You have found her.”
“Where?”
“Right here. I am she.”
I laughed outright and said:
“Oh, no, you must be mistaken. I do not mean to be disrespectful, but the Avis I am looking for is young, younger than I am—evidently another person of your name, whom you have never met.”
“How do you know she is young?”
“Why,” I answered, “of course she is young.”
And then, when I thought of it a moment, I remembered that no one had told me her age, but I added:
“I know she is young, because I have heard her sing.”
It was now my companion’s turn to laugh, but although her merriment was at my expense its expression, like all her actions, was exceedingly pleasing. The thought occurred to me that even the most cultured of the earth’s inhabitants have still much to learn in the realm of manners.
“Oh, do you imagine,” she asked, in the midst of her laughing, “that you can tell one’s age in Mars from the quality of the voice? Does this Avis of yours sing well?”
“Excellently well. Until I heard her I had supposed there was but one singer anywhere, in earth, sun, moon, or star, possessed of such a sweet and thrilling voice.”
“And where, if I may ask, did you find that one?”
“Oh, the doctor and I discovered her in our travels. I will tell you all about her when I have more time. Now will you excuse me while I continue my search for Avis?”
“You have forgotten,” she answered, “what I told you. I am Avis.”
“Not my Avis, the singer.”
“Yes, the very same, and I can prove it.”
“How?”
She answered by turning half around, lifting her head, and sending out on the air one full, rich note. It poorly describes my emotions to say I was astonished. If I had been blind and dependent only on what I heard at that moment, I should have thrown myself at her feet and called her Mona. It brought back to me not only every expression of Mona’s marvelous voice, but also every feature and every grace which had formerly so bewitched me. If I had loved her passionately when we were together in the body, it would be difficult to characterize my feelings now that she was present only in memory. These sensations swept over me rapidly, but before I could utter a word my companion spoke again:
“I see you hesitate. Let me complete my proof by saying that you are visiting, with Zenith and Thorwald, at the house of Fronda, and have heard me sing two nights in succession.”
“Then,” I exclaimed, with sorrow and despair in my voice, “I have indeed found Avis, but, alas! I have once more lost Mona.”
“How so?”
“Why, don’t you see? I expected to find Mona and lose Avis. I thought Avis was Mona, a thought born partly of hope, I suppose, but it did not seem possible that there could be two such singers. So you are really Avis. I must try and remember that, and not express any more sorrow at not losing you. If Avis could not be Mona it is certainly a great consolation to find her in you. Let me return with you to Proctor’s; and now, will you not sing for me as we walk?”
“Are you so fond of singing, or is it because you like to be reminded of Mona?”
“Both, I assure you.”
“Does my voice sound like hers in conversation?”
“Oh, no, Mona never talked as we do. Everything she wanted to say she sang.”
“You surprise me,” said Avis. “I should think she would soon become tiresome to her friends.”
“If you had ever known her you would not make such a remark as that.”
“I beg your pardon,” she quickly returned. “I presume you are right. And now, to atone for wounding your feelings, I will sing till we come in sight of Fronda’s house.”
“I thank you very much, and I promise you I shall walk as slowly as possible.”
She sang some sweet little things for me as we sauntered along, attracting me powerfully and making it easier for me to conceal my great disappointment.
When we reached the house Avis explained, in a few pleasant words, the fact of our acquaintance, and as soon as family and guests were all gathered for the noonday lunch I told them about my peculiar forgetfulness of what had occurred on the moon and then about the manner in which the events had been brought back to my mind. They showed more interest in the latter part of my relation than in the former, and when I was through the doctor said:
“I must confess to you now, my friend, that I told these good people something about your aberration. It was entirely for your own sake, for I wanted their help in bringing about your recovery, and now that we have been successful I hope you will forgive me.”
“You know there is nothing to forgive,” I replied. Then Zenith said:
“The doctor implies that we have all helped in the happy result, but I can tell you that it is entirely due to himself and Avis. He happened to meet Avis and heard her sing. He was struck at once with the likeness between her voice and Mona’s, about whom he had told us, and he conceived the idea that if you could hear it when you were alone, say in the night, and not know who the singer was, it might be the means of bringing the forgotten circumstances all back to you. From what the doctor has told us we have, every one of us, fallen in love with Mona, and I presume when we get your estimate we shall think none the less of her. If I am correctly informed you found her especially attractive.”
“In answer to your kind expressions of interest in me, Zenith, I will say that, in spite of my appreciation of what you are all doing for us, I shall never see another really happy moment until Mona is found.”
“Then,” quickly responded Thorwald, “we must redouble our efforts to find her. I must tell you that ever since the doctor first acquainted us with the loss of Mona we have had parties searching for her in all that part of the ocean.”
“How thoughtful you are,” I exclaimed. “But why do we not hurry home? Perhaps she is found.”
“I regret to add to your sorrow,” said Thorwald, “but we should learn of it here as quickly as at home, for I am in constant communication with my friends who are conducting the search. Still, we have been staying here for you and can now bring our visit to a close at any time.”
So after lunch we bade adieu to Proctor and his household, and started for home, the same way we went out—that is, by going west again. As we made a leisurely journey and enjoyed a good night’s rest on the way, it was just before noon when we arrived at Thorwald’s house. Here we found Antonia, who had been advised of our coming by telephone, and had prepared a nice lunch for us. Just as we were all about to sit down to enjoy it, a young man entered unannounced and, without formal invitation, joined us in gathering about the board. This was not an instance of undue familiarity, as we soon discovered, but illustrated again the free and hearty hospitality of these generous people.
“Foedric,” said Thorwald, as soon as the guest had been greeted, “let me present you to these two friends from the earth. You doubtless have heard of their arrival.”
“I have,” answered Foedric, “and I am exceedingly pleased to make their acquaintance.” And then turning to the doctor, he said:
“We shall not let Thorwald and Zenith have the monopoly of your company while you are visiting our world. Many others are anxious to see you and to learn something of our sister planet.”
“There is not much to learn,” said the doctor, “from such an unripe race as we represent, and I must say your people have not exhibited any unpleasant curiosity.”
“I am glad you have not been annoyed. We understand too well what is due you as our guests to crowd our attentions upon you, but you will allow me to say that already the main facts in your case are known all over our world, and our scientists are discussing the earth and its inhabitants in the great light of the knowledge which you have brought.”
Foedric spoke with ease, and yet with entire absence of youthful pedantry. The doctor and I could but admire his fine face and robust form, as well as his manly courtesy and friendliness. And before the meal was over we discovered that one other person at the table admired him, probably for the same and many other qualities. It seemed to us accidental when Foedric had dropped in upon us and chosen a seat next to Antonia, but it soon became evident that we had not witnessed even that kind of an accident.
What was exhibited to us there, among that highly developed people, was a genuine, old-fashioned, new-fashioned love affair. We rejoiced in our hearts to find that their advanced civilization left abundant room for the development of the tender passion, and that it also seemed not to discourage a plain and sensible exhibition of it. For these two young people made no effort to conceal their happiness. Not the company of their chosen friends nor the presence of strangers from a distant world caused them the slightest embarrassment, as they spoke from time to time their words of love, simple words to other listeners, but full of meaning to themselves.
“Say that again, Antonia,” spoke Foedric.
“Why do you ask me to repeat it so often? I have said it so many times and with so little variety of expression that I fear the monotony will tire you. You can tell how strong my devotion is by my every look and action.”
“Very well,” Foedric responded, “then I, too, will be silent.”
“Oh, no; I retract what I have said if it is to have that effect. It is only my own expressions that seem tiresome. I could not be happy without your voice in my ears, though you repeat from morn till eve the old, familiar words.”
“Then you must believe the same of me,” said Foedric.
As we all happened to be listening to these two at that moment, Foedric looked up to our host and said:
“Thorwald, do you think Antonia and I had better try to reform the customs of the world, and do away with all verbal expression of our attachment, on the ground that it is unnecessary and only a waste of breath?”
“If some cruel master should force such a prohibition upon you, Foedric, what would be your feeling? The heart craves such expression as naturally as the body craves food. Suppose a couple were to start off by saying once for all that they loved each other, and then agree to live the rest of their lives on that one expression. They would argue that all such sentiment was folly, and interfered with the serious business of life, and so, denying a healthy appetite, their hearts would shrivel up and the fair blossom of their love would soon wither and die.”
As we smiled at Thorwald’s words, Zenith showed her interest by saying:
“The subject reminds me of that epoch in our history of which we read, when all the world went without eating for a time.”
“Without eating?” asked the doctor.
“Yes, I will tell you about it. Once science reached that condition where it thought it could make the world over and improve on the first creation in a great many ways. Men began to say that the time spent in cooking and eating was all wasted, that time, being the most valuable thing they had, should be employed in some more useful way than in indulging a mere sensual passion. The appetite came to be looked upon as something too gross for intelligent beings and suited only to the natures of the lower animals. Under the influence of this growing sentiment, science soon discovered a process for condensing our food to wonderfully small proportions. All extraneous matter was rejected, and only those particles retained which were absolutely essential to our nourishment, chemical knowledge having reached a high state. The result was that it finally became possible to subsist a whole day on a single swallow. One pill, taken every morning, contained all the food required, both for the growth and maintenance of the body Science prided itself on such an advanced step, and men looked forward and wondered what further marvels the future would bring forth.”
The doctor did not try to hide his interest in this recital, and as soon as Zenith paused he said:
“My friend and myself are most truly thankful that that custom did not continue to the present day. But did it remain long?”
“No,” replied Zenith, “of course it could not. At first people thought it an immense gain. Just think of the time and expense it saved in every household, doing away with dining-room and kitchen, with all their furniture and utensils, and reducing the cares of housekeeping much more than half. But it proved to be a costly experiment, and nature soon exerted itself, as it always will in time. Science, not satisfied with what had been accomplished, kept striving after what it called more perfect results, and just as it had made a pellet of such powerful ingredients that it would sustain life for a week, men began to die rapidly of the treatment. This called a halt, but the damage done was serious enough to give the world a good fright, turn it back to the old fashioned habit of eating, and confirm us forever in that indulgence. Since then we have believed that such appetites are given us for a wise purpose and that, rightly enjoyed, they are a means of growth toward a more and more perfect state.”
“This lesson from our experience then,” said Foedric to Antonia, “is to teach us the plain duty of lavishing upon each other, without measure, our affectionate words, because it is a legitimate, healthy longing of our nature, and I sincerely hope you will take it to heart. Do not undertake to make me exist a week or a day on a single morsel.”
As for myself, I was not so much engrossed in this talk as to forget my own condition, which seemed all the more forlorn by contrast with the unalloyed happiness of these joyous beings. I wondered if such affairs always went smoothly in Mars. Was early love always mutual, or did one sometimes refuse to be wooed and prefer another? And did it ever happen that the loved one was lost, as Mona was lost to me, perhaps never to be found?
But in the company of such happy people I felt that my anxious spirit was out of place, and I tried to cast off my forebodings and to seize from the image of Mona present in my memory a portion of her own cheer and hope. That I was not entirely successful my looks must have shown, for as we rose from the table Zenith said to me, with a look of sympathy:
“You are sad—I think I will send for Avis to come over and cheer you up.”
This was spoken as if Avis were just across the street and could run over in a minute. But as I did not discourage the idea the invitation was sent, and before night Avis was with us, filling the house with melody. She delighted in her song and was as youthful in spirit as a girl, and this was a quality always noticeable in the Martians. And, moreover, under the influence of Avis the members of our own household found their voices, so that the doctor and I learned that they need not send to the antipodes for Avis possessed the peculiar charm of Mona.
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