“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 difficulties we have passed in church ceremonies and church government.”
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