The following day dawned clear, bright and hot. The heat irritated
Sheldon and inspired orative propensities in Saxe.; both were engaged in
argument as I entered the room reserved for—er—gossip.
“They are certainly a cold-blooded, soulless race,” agreed Saxe. to
Sheldon’s testy exclamation:
“Fish!”
“The result of over-civilization,” continued Saxe. with merciless
deliberation. “They have reached the acme of that which we deem
impossible, yet gaze upon in all its remarkable rarity—Perfection. And
in the whole universe I see nothing so imperfect; yet these people are
sublimely satisfied with themselves, their complacency and faith in
their superiority is superb—I wouldn’t be one of them! In their
marvelous conceit they have dared penetrate and would crush Nature’s
final repose. Their indefatigable search for knowledge is spurred by the
belief that everlasting existence is accomplished in conquering all
mysteries. Death to them is full realization, having solved the problem
of joy they forfeited immortality. Earth is their Paradise; they and
their world beyond have reached perfection—there is nothing beyond.”
I hastened to change the subject. Saxe.’s words filled me with horror as
I thought of the beautiful girl whose supreme ambition was for
immortality, which she expected to gain through deeds, not death.
Knowledge would be the ruination of this grand race. Saxe. spoke the
truth, but I would not believe, and accused him of hasty judgment and
ever on the alert for effect. He shook his head, gravely reiterating his
statements of the “strange, repellant Centaurians,” from whom he would
learn all he could, considering them, from a scientific point of view,
most interesting. He emphatically preferred the Potolilis and
Octrogonas.
I hurried to the gardens to avoid further discussions, but my friends
soon joined me. We strolled beneath gigantic trees, enjoying their cool,
quiet protection from the fierce sunlight. Strange flowers grew in
profusion, flowers of massive beauty and sickening-sweet fragrance.
“Monstrosities—flowers—Centaurians!” snapped Saxe., still harping on the
subject that made me realize the full meaning of despair.
I passionately loved the beautiful Centaurian who ruled over this
abnormal civilization, whose demise meant—bah! does Saxe. know any more
about it than the rest of us? Impatiently I turned away, colliding with
a huge bush glorious in bloom, whose exquisite flower of transparent
whiteness petaled a star-shaped, golden heart. Instantly the beautiful,
heavy, fragrant clusters enslaved the senses with a strange, ecstatic
glamour. The compelling personality of the siren I worshipped roused
vivid, overpoweringly, crowding from my mind all obnoxious warnings.
Impulsively I plucked the gorgeous witch flowers, and with fervent
message sent them to the fairest, most beautiful woman in all the world.
The reply was brief, characteristic, despairing. Alpha Centauri was
thankful I had rested well (which I hadn’t mentioned), and trusted I
would find the day full of enjoyment. She would receive me when I
returned from the Observatory.
“Damn the Observatory!” I blurted out.
“Another man, no fake!” chirped Sheldon in his usual consoling manner.
“A fine girl like that, of course, has admirers.”
“I don’t believe it!” I bawled.
“Centur is not interested in your beliefs,” he retorted; “and—oh, well,
have it any way that’s tickling. She’s been waiting all her life
for—er—you, dear boy.”
He snickered, while I, with growing excitement, declared my intention of
shirking the Observatory.
“Bravo, Sally! my suggestion exactly,” Sheldon laughed. “The Observatory
will come later; it always does—just one particular twinkler now; when
that pales——.”
A number of gentlemen unexpectedly joined us. Apparently they had been
waiting for us somewhere and I was cheated out of my reply.
Sheldon fairly shook with exasperating enjoyment as he manœuvred to
prevent me getting any closer to him than a block.
We were escorted to the museum, our way leading mostly through the vast
gardens of the palace. From time to time along the route groups of
gentlemen casually joined us until, as Sheldon elegantly expressed it,
we ought to be tagged or the Pound might take us for the lost tribe of
Roman-Jews and get rude.
We strolled along in pairs and groups. I was tolled off to a set of
pretty, babbling inconsequents, whose beauty, gracefulness and
astonishing interest displayed in Sheldon’s witticisms impressed me
rather favorably. I amused myself watching Saxe. as he cleverly juggled
with the people he thought so little of, making them his friends; but
finally bored into deep meditation completely forgot them all, even the
beardless fashionables, whom the Centaurians considered my class, who,
uneasy, at my absent-mindedness, uncongeniality, slyly slipped away one
by one. Unnoticed I escaped down a side path, where a sea of pink bloom
tempted me to wander in amazed admiration through a veritable forest of
waxen lilies. But their roseate beauty, fragrance failed to lighten the
gloom that now gripped desperately. For the first time in my life I
realized my own individual worth. Stripped of wealth, the ruling deity
of my world, I stood revealed an ordinaire without talent or
inspiration, a dissatisfied nondescript riling at fate, limited in the
higher treasures of enlightenment before which this fair, radiant land
of mighty ideals kneeled. Saxe., Sheldon, Saunders and myself, had
battled with northern horrors to discover—same evil old world of
sordidness, shoddily veneered, ranting victory over impulse, but
coveting, struggling, for the imaginary power of knowing all things.
I had neglected to bring my one potent charm, and out of my sphere,
bitter with disappointment, crazed with love-sickness, in a frenzy of
desire I vowed—vowed to possess the One Woman, who from her pedestal of
aloofness roused such reverential awe. She who would solve all mysteries
shall realize the joy, sorrow of savagery.
Before the masterful emotion of possession, tumultuous ravings
evaporated. My mind cleared, freshened as a mid-summer’s day after a
cooling shower, and from a sweet, calm reverie, I was suddenly roused by
my own ringing laughter. After all, these marvelously enlightened people
were not so different from us—the whole world avoids a man in love.
I emerged from the forest of blush lilies; a wide waste of velvety lawn
stretched far to the east, and nestling in a hollow of soft emerald, a
long grotesque structure of ivory whiteness gleamed. It was the museum.
The entrance stood wide and I entered a lofty, tiled hall, the walls
wondrously carved; fabulous monstrosities leered from all sides. I
stepped into a spacious room hung with hand-woven silks and rare
tapestries of intricate design, rich scarfs of delicate raised beading
represented scenes of a strange, unknown period. There were peculiar
wall ornaments in circular and diamond shapes. Queer conical baskets,
varying in size from a thimble to a trunk woven from human hair, the
various shades blending exquisitely in quaint patterns. There were
curious pouches, chatelaines and many dainty toilet articles, made from
the damask leather of pulped flowers, the odor after unknown centuries
clinging pungently to the crushed blossoms.
I strolled from one department to the other crowded with priceless
curios. It was impossible to view everything in a single day, but I did
good work in the few hours I spent there, and during my stay in Centur
visited the museum many times.
Most of the morning glided away as I lingered before great jewel cases,
containing superb gems. I marveled at the rare, beautiful settings, and
queer golden ornaments covered with weird inscriptions; great golden
urns, shaped like a bishop’s mitre, and tongueless bells engraved with
heathenish figures, and apart by itself was an enormous block of gold
cut with minute carvings and hierographic writings, with a monstrous
ruby like a rose-bud sunk in the center. The tiny carvings represented
vital epochs in the history of Centauri, and the great ruby heart would
evaporate when Centauri ceased—the sentiment was very pretty.
I curiously examined numerous trays of beads, their glaring colors
blended gorgeously in barbaric settings. These articles were treasured
because worn by the first Centauris, and for centuries had ceased to be
manufactured. The few remaining strings in Saxe.’s collection were
vastly superior in make and no doubt, in many eloquent speeches, he
would be requested to donate them to the museum.
I wandered into a great long picture gallery. The walls hung with rare
old paintings—these people had their “old masters” also. For over an
hour I remained before a huge painting; it seemed one could enter the
pictured room and converse with the vividly animated faces, brightened
with such friendly, expressive eyes. In the foreground the figure of a
woman reclined upon a golden couch swathed in flimsy material, ill
concealing her dusky beauty. Deep, burning eyes gleamed intensely, heavy
masses of dark hair fell all around her. She was beautiful, fascinating,
yet repelled. The passionate eyes were cruel, the lovely mouth drooped,
cold, cynical; yet there was a startling resemblance between this
divinity of past ages and the woman I adored. The ancient Queen was
feline, treacherous, and the living beauty——? I was informed the
portrait was a splendid likeness of the first woman to rule the
Centaurians. Her reign had been one of culture and prosperity. She
existed during the era of Love, and was Alpha the First. All the women
of the Great Family have been named after her. “There is a wonderful
resemblance between the portrait and the present Alpha,” I remarked.
My informant lowered his eyes. The glamour of awe, reverence, had been
well ground into these people. Apparently the present Alpha was sacred
and beyond comparison. The political situation of this great country
could be regarded any way it pleased the Centaurians, but their Alpha
was their Queen.
The worshipful gentleman spoke, his voice trembling with pride. “The
present Alpha is divine,” he told me.
I saluted.
“And,” he continued, “the painting that so interests you represents the
Centaurians just emerging from the savage state.”
“Ah, bravo!” We bowed deeply to each other and, admiringly. I watched
him as he strolled leisurely away.
For some time I lingered, studying the untamed beauty of Alpha the
First, then as the echo of voices reached me, and fearing to encounter
those who had failed to notice my absence, I hurried ahead through
luxurious apartments furnished in the silken modernness of my world and
rested secure in a dimly-lit room crowded with primitive earthenware,
grotesque pottery and cooking utensils. Progression had neatly divided
the apartment. Near where I stood were shelves of ancient bric-a-brac
and clay crockery of unique design and molding. There were tall, shining
pedestals and enormous fat vases, and behind a hideous idol with white
eyes, I hid till sure those I wished to avoid had passed on.
I wandered aimlessly, marveling at the fabulous antiquity, and finally
anchored in a vast department of massive machinery. Here progression had
made rapid strides; you could follow it from the crude, primitive, to
perfected mechanism. I came across a curiously devised instrument, raw,
immature, yet very similar to Saxe.’s lost _Propellier_. His invention,
however, was the idea perfected, and to excite comparison and prove the
superiority of his own instrument he intended constructing a new machine
and present it to the museum.
I examined strange traveling conveyances, uncouth, chariot-shaped, and
laughed at the repetition of custom—chariots were in use at the present
time. There were huge ocean liners, and bulky, high-masted sailing
vessels, and ominous, sullen battleships. The railroad was ludicrously
represented in complete trains of heavy, lumbersome coaches, drawn by
gigantic engines, as different from the locomotives of our world as the
two halves of the globe. The first aerial machine, though a complete
failure, had its niche in this colossal exposition. Tragic was its
history, a score or more lives sacrificed to the inventor’s ambition.
Navigable balloons came later, marking progress, success, in various
forms. Most were square at the base with toy wind-mills for propellers,
and if they sailed the air, all right; but not even Centauri could tempt
me to enter one. Devilish implements of war and monstrous instruments of
torture occupied a vast space, catalogued according to history with
civilization glaringly noticeable in the learning of refined
fiendishness. It was fascinating to follow up the perpetual advancement
of inhumanity. From primitive ingenuity of the antediluvian age one
stepped through the periods of enlightenment, reaching the zenith of
hostile progression through an awful device, creating instantaneous
blindness. This exhausted the age of war, but the exquisite cruelty of
these people continued to advance. Instruments of frightful torture were
extensively arrayed, foul infernal machines to whose ingenious
devilishness nothing, nothing in the universe could compare—the
Centaurians have not always been saints (?).
Constant civilization simplifies the miraculous, but savagery exists as
long as life’s fluid stains red.
I lost no time in getting away from the room of horrors with its
loathsome exhibit of man’s satanic genius, and hastened down a narrow,
serpentine passage, plunging unexpectedly through a swinging brass net
door. A flood of light greeted me and I blinked and gaped in confusion.
I had stumbled into the midst of a large assemblage of gigantic men and
women whose stone countenances welcomed me with every variety of
expression. There were joyful, beaming smiles, and fierce glances of
forbiddance, but all diffidence vanished before the sweet witchery of
invitation. I had reached the hall of wonderful sculpture and at once
sought the three famous loves of Centauri.
Perfection in art had been attained during the era of passion; plainly
genius is a savage taint. The deadening of all emotion is productive of
the marvelous in science, but abnormity is the result of too advanced
civilization. In this motley collection acquired and natural inspiration
is easily discernible and progression traceable in gradual sections. The
Centaurians had reached the inartistic height and realized it. They
treasured antiquity above all the miraculous inventions of modern times.
Conspicuously set apart and above in lofty azure niches, the three grand
passions of the dark ages gazed down upon their stone dominion. I paused
before a colossal figure in quartz richly veined with gold, a form of
heavy, generous proportions, a dull, stupid face—this was Love. The
sculptor was a master, but lacked originality, expression, and judging
him by his work, he’d found Love deucedly slow. His winged child,
however, was exquisite, but failed to impress, being the same fat,
little boy trying to fly that we’re all familiar with.
The third Love was produced in a later generation and tantalized with
enticement. The artist betrayed a cynical, humorous genius in every
curve of his exquisite creation and had transformed a huge block of
virgin marble into a pair of lovers. It was the work of a visionary, the
human form never reached such absolute divinity.
A feminine figure of petite, delicate loveliness was passionately
clasped in the massive arms of a herculean Adonis, who gazed rapturously
into the upturned flower face, fascinating in winsome, diablier beauty.
The pose was ideal. This risque conception was “Fancy,” and I laughed
softly as I figured out the situation. Each fancied, desired, toyed with
the other, both were superficial; and the sculptor, after varied
experience, happily discovered that Love was merely a fleeting
disturbance. Vaguely I wondered if anything so incredulous could be
true, and devoutly hoped so. Centauri I loved, fiercely desired, but
should the end be disastrous I would give all my wealth to have the
madness flit airily away into convenient, mischievous “Fancy.” Not
caring to mar the delightful, whimsical impression this astounding
phantasy made upon me, I left the museum.
The morning was far advanced—noon, I judged by the sun. There wasn’t a
soul in sight, just a broad expanse of calm and peace throbbing beneath
a scorching sun, and my enchanting forest of vermilion flickered,
sultry, seemingly hundreds of miles away. I decided to go to the city.
It was a long tramp, but I rested frequently in cool green parks, shaded
by giant trees. Houses at first were few, quaintly picturesque,
surrounded with beautiful gardens and orchards. Soon this lovely rural
simplicity gave way to broad avenues lined with costly residences, but
after awhile, though the uniformed elegance was very impressive, I
wearied of the monotonous similarity of the odd domed buildings,
glistening with a greenish lustre. It was this sea lustre which caused
Sheldon to exclaim, when beholding the palace of Centauri, “A palace of
crystal!”
Houses were not crushed together as seen in our cities. Each building
was centered in a spacious square and all surrounded with high, solid
walls. Curious, I examined this wall. The surface was smooth, shiny and
cold. I decided the foundation was of stone veneered with a combination
of—er——.
A short distance ahead a gentleman stepped from one of the gardens and I
hastened to join him. He had no objection to my company; the Centaurians
are a genial, social race. It was not long, however, before he
discovered I was “one of the four strangers who had crossed,” etc., and
he hung like a burr. He was full of information, tedious with lengthy
explanations—he went clear around the city to reach a point just across
the street, and I watched for a chance to lose him, deciding finally to
excuse myself and streak up another avenue, when suddenly he grasped my
arm, murmuring: “The hour of worship,” and rushed me ahead to avoid the
people trooping from houses and gardens who swelled the great throng
that gradually swooped upon us. In the crush I lost my friend, but could
see him peering for me in all directions and cheerfully eluded him. I
was forced along, wondering at the destination of this dense, silent
throng, all so hurried and earnest, traveling with settled purpose in
one direction. Women, vividly beautiful with health; men, muscular,
powerful in their strength; children, fresh with a cherubic loveliness;
a fascinating crowd. Suddenly loud shouts of warning rang clear on the
sultry air, I heard the clattering of horses’ hoofs upon the hard
pavement: the crowd parted with shrill cheers and a chariot drawn by
plunging white horses flew by. A woman stood erect, holding with one
hand the reins guiding the flying steeds, the other was pointed to the
heavens. A woman tall, straight, a goddess with dark tresses floating in
the breeze.
“Alpha Centauri!” I gasped.
“Aye, Alpha Centauri,” the man next to me answered.
“Priestess of the Sun!” cried a second.
“The bride of Knowledge, whose wedding gift was divinity,” murmured a
third. And it is all very pretty, I thought, and what a poetical,
sentimental race these people are.
Steadily pressing onward, with constant reinforcements trooping from
every avenue, the crush became alarming, but finally we entered a wide
park and in relief the people spread like a great, black wave over the
green lawn thinning to an obelisk peak toward a shining temple, with
glistening steeples topped with huge golden globes. The bronze portals
stood wide and, carried along by the rush of devout Centaurians, I
entered a place dark with the chill of a sepulchre. My eyes accustomed
to the brilliant sunlight at first could distinguish nothing, but
gradually the darkness lifted. I was in a house of worship crowded with
a kneeling, reverent congregation. Ignorant of what they worshipped, I
would not kneel, but squatted upon the cold, tiled floor, and peered
through the dim light. A long hall, wide, windowless, with lofty domed
ceiling and rounded walls hung with rich tapestries and exquisite wood
etchings. In the roof was a circular opening about twenty feet in
diameter—this admitted all the light and ventilation. No wonder the
place was cold, dark and filled with close vapors. Directly beneath this
opening four massive, yet transparent, columns rose, and in the center a
figure stood heavily draped, with face upturned and arms hanging limply
at the sides. In the dimness at first I took this form for a fifth
column. The congregation was a silent one, no psalm singing, minister or
priest; yet all were reverently, devoutly engrossed. Gradually the light
grew brighter, clearer, and long, slanting rays of the sun filtered
through the opening. Longer, stronger, grew these slants of light and
heat penetrating the darkest corner. Then suddenly the sun itself
appeared, a round, burning disc, high in the heavens directly above the
opening. The Temple was flooded with light, and the figure I took for a
statue moved, flinging up its arms in worshipful adoration, chanting
weirdly in low tones. As the sun moved so did the form. I caught a
glimpse of the face and fell against my neighbor with a loud, startled
cry, but my voice was drowned in the great volume of music that filled
the place. These people with lifted faces and outstretched arms sang
ardently—sang to the Sun. And the woman upon whom I feasted my eyes
stood in all her marvelous loveliness amid the burning rays of this
fiery god, in truth a Priestess of the Sun.
As the sun gradually sailed over the opening the rays became shorter,
more oblique, casting odd black shadows, and finally the Temple was once
more in darkness. The song ended abruptly, the congregation rose and
quietly dispersed; services were over.
I remained, intending to examine this peculiar Temple of a fiery
religion, but the lid slid suddenly over the opening above and hastily I
groped my way to the door, thankful there were no seats to stumble over.
Out in the hot sunshine again I mingled with the crowd that hurried in
various directions and wandered about the city for hours.
The architecture of public buildings was varied, unique, superb, and in
complete contrast to the monotonous sameness of private dwellings.
Skilled architects had planned that no two government buildings should
in any way be similar. Near the palace was the court house, a low,
square, rugged stone building of primitive hideousness,
centuries—centuries old. Prisons there were none; this half of the globe
was free of criminals. It was explained to me that all causes fostering
crime belonged to the middle ages. A philosopher had then predicted that
civilization would be complete when passionate humanity became
extinct—ahem! The Centaurians had mastered civilization in the
production of a perfect race. They could not love or hate. Adultery,
murder, envy, jealousy were the unknown evils of savagery.
Exterminating the germ, Love, root of disaster, all other passions were
conquered by themselves. Marriage was committed simply for the
perpetuity of the race.
I envied these people their lofty, pure minds, and rare, physical
perfection. Like blessed, celestial childhood, they seemed free of care.
Death brought momentary sadness, regret. These philosophers declared
dissolution the highest degree of nature, which they worshipped in the
form of the Sun.
The political situation of the country I did not attempt to analyze, but
the great organizations of political intrigue, shareholders in the
monstrous, outrageous peculation of Principle, and the turbulent,
contagious plague of Election, were labeled among the rare curios of the
dark ages.
The Centaurians in their far-reaching, penetrating intelligence and
advanced simplicity, vested full power in one man, the Great Man of
Wisdom.
Centauri was the head of the nation, personifying the government, and
enlightened beyond duplicity, believed firmly in himself, as did the
people. Fortunates, rising above tortuous, mental doubts, are the
dominants of civilization.
From time immemorial each Great Man, upon assuming office, was supposed
to form a new government, but the majority abided by the laws of their
predecessors, chary of questioning the sublime, shackless justice,
reigning centuries of calm. Centauri, however, brought about many
radical changes. His strenuousness ended the quietude of centuries,
destroyed the ancient laws of his ancestors and created new ones. The
people welcomed the new regime. “Progression!” they cried, but ignored
entirely that which was next to Centauri’s heart.
“Progression by degrees is more thorough.” The people pleaded and vetoed
the order “to abolish all Sun Temples and erect new houses of worship to
Him, who is supreme.”
Centauri wished to found a new sect and when learning of the veto,
sorrowfully remarked: “I have ignored the Gradual, yet will live to
realize the suggestion as fact.” He sacrificed his wish to the people.
He set a new value upon Trade, which in this ideal world defined the
full significance of the word—merchandise for merchandise—limiting the
circulation of currency to such an extent that in the present era of
plenty money was superfluous, and exchanged merely for form in trifling
transactions.
Many schools, libraries were stationed throughout the city; handsome
buildings luxuriously equipped. Private institutions had long been
abolished, young ladies’ seminaries and muscle-developing colleges,
where fancy sums are expended for a veneer which renders the subject
pitifully unfit, lacking even the ability to assist themselves in
necessity. Mere useless toys of frivolity issued yearly from stilted
preparatories—unseasoned veal garnished with underdone dumplings, a
saute, to the dismay of our ancestors, is called the rising
generation—were forgotten nuisances. In this marvelously enlightened
world greed, cupidity were traits of mediæval times, merit rose superior
to capricious “influence,” students were ambitious, sincere in their
efforts and sought elevation till they passed away to new spheres.
Centur had many magnificent theaters, all with a remarkable roof
contrivance. At a moment’s notice the whole top of the building could be
removed, sliding upon hinges and resting at the side of the house upon
props like a huge box cover.
The opera house was by far the handsomest building of its kind in the
city. The interior was indescribably beautiful, lavish, rich, wantonly
luxurious, with a seating capacity for twenty thousand.
The Centaurians had still to conquer their passion for music, but comedy
was the chief amusement, caged in a bijou of art splendid with elaborate
decorations of foolish clowns, mirth-inspiring masks and rare, exquisite
etchings of fair Folly in various beckoning attitudes. These wise
children, with their wonderful clarity of thought, had long digested the
happiness of laughter, but realized the absolute necessity of variation.
Gloom spiced delight; ennui was strictly a product of my own country.
Tragedy was a classic, a profound culture, and was lodged in a sombre,
stately building bearing the nearest approach to a prison I had yet
encountered—a handsome monument to Melancholia, rich in antiquity. There
were whole scenes of famous tragedies produced in wonderful paintings
startlingly vivid with the misery of reality shadowed in a background of
heavy, costly, dull-hued fabrics. I grew wretched with homesickness in
the dolorous aura, dense with the miasma of rank perfumes. The theater
reminded me of those of my own world during the sad day time, illy
ventilated, morose half light, and the usual freezing shower to the
imagination which impels you to seek fresh air with alacrity. Tragedy
was unpopular with the Centaurians. Thespians were forced to work before
the uninspiring view of rows of empty seats, their efforts critically
watched by scant audiences, unresponsive, stony, occasionally
applauding, invariably at the wrong time. And the actors, adepts in the
art of mechanism, waded through their parts with not the slightest
conception or sympathy—marionettes.
The culture of progression reduced tragedy to the greatest of farces,
and fatalities were shelved by the generation of the wonderful present.
The knowledge of the “diseased art, relic of the dark ages,” was culled
from the histories of the ancients.
Fascinated, I tramped throughout this marvelous city, congratulating
myself that I was without a guide. The lost, strange feeling was
delightful. I had not the remotest idea where I was going, but noticed
the avenues grew broader, dwellings farther apart and gardens larger,
more gorgeous, finally terminating in the city’s wall, a shallow forest
of magnificent trees circling Centur like a great feathery belt; beyond
stretched a broad vista of lovely verdant country, but the blue line of
distance seemed strangely cut and uneven, a shadowy obstruction reared
to a tremendous height extending over the land for miles.
Curious, I wandered to the edge of the forest wall, resting a few
minutes, undecided whether to advance or turn back; then I struck out
direct over the soft green fields, avoiding the road, which is always
the longest route. Why?
The heat was intense, the journey long, tedious, but in the glorious end
fatigue was forgotten. I finally reached a high, massive iron trellis
wall, through which I peered at a scene; ah! entrancing, Eden-like,
veiled with the enchantment of mystery. I found the ponderous gates
invitingly wide and dared to enter this strangely still sphere of
illusion, dense with overpowering, exotic odors of millions of
brilliant-hued blossoms. I gorged my sight with the rainbow tinted
vision, then waded neck deep in the wild, flowery maze, wondering for
all the heavy-scented fascination just why this paradise had been
created.
Gradually my senses pierced the charm and I discovered the
bewildering-hued floral abundance was massed cleverly together forming
clusters of stars, circles and crescents, separated by broad stone
paths, all leading to a gigantic structure rearing higher than any
building in Centur. A grim abode, marring, darkening the brilliant
surroundings. I ventured near this huge, strange building; high, broad,
square, of sombre granite, the massive bronze portals stood wide.
A chill quietness pervaded all things, a sudden unaccountable feeling of
abhorrence came over me. My swift glance traveled throughout the immense
vestibule tiled with black marble and wainscoted to the ceiling with
iron; the walls were ornamented with countless little brass knobs.
“A sepulchre!” I gasped; “a monstrous tomb!” and turning quickly fell
heavily against a man who evidently had been following me.
“You wish to enter?” he asked, ignoring my awkwardness. In confusion I
mumbled an apology. The moment I spoke he saluted deeply.
“One of the four strangers from the other side,” he murmured; and
without further ceremony led the way. I followed, plying him with
questions, all of which he courteously answered. He informed me the
circular spots that so attracted me were the knobs of little doors
leading to diminutive, yet far-stretching lanes, containing the ashes of
the departed. He twisted a great knob near the floor, instantly twenty
or thirty little doors flew open and I peered curiously into the little
dark alleys, some extending clear around the building and all containing
ashes of those who had departed centuries ago.
“The fundamental law and perfecting touch of nature is extinction,” the
gentleman informed me. “At the expiration of a race,” he continued, “the
ashes of the entire line are removed from these cells and consigned to
the underground vaults which form the foundation of this building.
Throughout the gardens are many stairways leading to the vaults;
ventilation is perfect. Would you care to visit the underground?”
I replied hastily in the negative.
He told me the building had been erected 5,000 years and was still
incomplete. It comprised twenty-five floors, with the plans opened to
add twenty-five more. But he was positive the additional twenty-five
floors would never be built, basing his conviction upon the “supreme law
of degeneration, extinction.”
He declared the building would never be completed; that it would take
thousands of years, and the “inevitable is never idle.”
“Has it always been cremation? Was there never a time of burials?” I
asked.
“Burials!” he cried: “you mean the body in the natural state, planted in
the ground?”
I nodded.
“Preposterous!” he gasped; “is there such a custom? Not even the savages
commit such sacrilege. Cremation,” he continued, “is a form of our
religion, though for a century burials were resorted to. Eight hundred
years ago a noted herbalist of that period extracted from minerals an
acid which, when applied to the lifeless body, produced instant
petrification, but unfortunately the demise of this wise man closed
forever the petrified age. We returned to cremation.”
He drew from their cells exquisite, odd-shaped urns. Some were of
bronze, many of iron, a few of gold. The silver ones were tarnished and
ugly, and plain stone jars seemed to be the most in use. He drew out
boxes of rare scented wood, beautifully inlaid with metals, and from one
of the lower shelves brought out a narrow, oblong, silvery block,
explaining the style had been in use many centuries and proved the most
durable.
Eagerly I examined the curio. It was a crystal block quaintly etched
with queer characters, the ashes within giving the silver sheen. I
quickly returned it to its cell, then stooping, twisted the great knob
near the floor, which caused all the little doors to spring together
with a snap. The guide smiled knowingly and, taking my arm, escorted me
down the long, sombre hall, advising me to inspect the tomb of the Great
Family. We halted in front of a small door, which flew open at the
touch, revealing a small, square platform that shot up like a rocket as
we stepped upon it. The speed slackened gradually to a standstill before
wonderful gates of smooth, dull gold, which slowly opened. I entered a
lofty, arched room, flooded with sunlight blazing upon gold-paneled
walls, and sank ankle deep in golden floss which deadened sound. I gazed
upon fabulous magnificence. There were wonderful embroideries studded
with gems flashing golden suns. Silver gauze hung high, shimmering with
sparkling sprays, soft as moonlight; strange urns, jars and bowls
embedded with gems; delicate jeweled caskets of ivory and jade, tall
crystal cylinders, divided into compartments, all containing a silvery
dust. Massive bronze columns carved and engraved with strange forms and
inscriptions relative to the history of those whose ashes powdered its
heart. Gold and silver globes and queer diamond-shaped receptacles were
lined in order upon bronze trestles; all contained the sanctified ashes
of rulers long departed, and high above all this splendor hung the
golden banner and imperial arms of Centauri.
My eyes suddenly fastened upon a hideous stone figure, the trunk of a
woman resting upon a gem-incrusted pedestal.
“That is the form of the beauteous Alpha Centauri, who reigned during
the petrified age,” the guide informed me. “It is very pathetic, and
marks petrification a failure. The lower portion of the body has
crumpled away; the pedestal contains the powder. Before long what
remains will be dust, then the pedestal will be sealed.”
“Why so much splendor for the Great Family if all Centaurians are
equal?” I asked.
“All Centaurians are equal,” he answered; “but the Great Family is
divine, immortal.”
“Truly is the Great Family wise,” I muttered; then suddenly sickened,
repelled at the bestial richness. I turned toward the golden gates, but
hesitated, not caring to descend by the treacherous elevator.
The guide, understanding my nervousness, led me through a rear door and
out to a long, barren, draughty hall. The floor, a recent addition, was
still incomplete, but the ashes of the Great Family always occupied the
new portion of the building. We reached a narrow, winding stairway, and
the friendly guide cautioned and advised slow travel.
I began the steep descent, but frequently rested, owing to an odd
trembling, and from that day forever I abhorred the odor of musk and
wondered if I had inhaled any of the perfumed powder of the Great
Family. Reaching the gloomy, black tiled hall, I rushed like one
possessed out into the fresh air, but the beauties of the garden had
vanished and I raced along the white paths and was soon streaking it
across the green country, nor did I slacken up till reaching once more
the swaying, circular forest. I followed the edge of the curving grove,
hoping it would lead to the heart of the city, but instead the trees
thinned to the harbor. The long, slanting rays of the sun glistened upon
white piers and bridges which jutted far out into the bay. Gateways were
elaborate columned arches, and the fantastic domed and spiral turreted
roofs of dock buildings gave Centur the appearance of a great mystical
palace floating upon the sea. If only the much respected municipalities
of our various cities could have accompanied me upon that tour of
inspection——!!!
Heavy freight was still transported by water and rail. I watched strong,
brawny men load and unload queer, barge-like ships.
The wages of labor was paid in bolts of goods, provisions and books.
Knowledge was prized higher than gold or silver.
All work was done for the government. There was but one government, one
nationality, one language, and competition, monopolies, labor
organizations, were unknown evils. There were no classes, all men were
equal, but a thin dividing line was stretched by Knowledge—the more
learned the more power.
Supreme satisfaction resulted in this superior civilization.
I wandered some time around the business portion of the city, vainly
trying to find my way back to the palace. I would not ask directions, as
I passed all right for a Centaurian, till I opened my mouth, then I was
gaped at as “one of the four,” etc. This had begun to pall.
There seemed to be a great many buildings going up in the business
district, or it was just possible that my wanderings invariably winded
up in front of the same building. At all events my lounging finally
attracted the attention of the workmen, and the foreman ventured up and
inquired my business. The moment I spoke it was all up—one of the
four——. The man saluted deeply and courteously offered to take me over
the building. The word flew along the line and I was regarded with
interest, and caps were doffed if by chance I happened to meet the eye
of any of the men. Information concerning the building was willingly
given, and I solved the mysterious appearance of all the houses in
Centur—they were made of glass. Great blocks of glass hoisted one upon
the other forced and screwed together and joined with liquid crystal.
Walls measured from five to seven feet thick; apartments were large,
airy, the halls wide, lofty, with domed ceilings supported by huge
crystal columns. In the center of the dome an electric chandelier swung,
which flamed blue the moment the sun set and remained burning till sun
rise. Dwellings were constructed to accommodate four and five families.
The durability of glass is above argument; most of the buildings in
Centur had been standing for centuries, and the palace of Centauri was
believed to be the first crystal building erected. Some of the houses
had a coating of paint, pale blue, pink, whatever the fancy, creating a
porcelain effect which I thought vastly pretty; but the popular tint
seemed to be the natural tinge of the glass, a dark, sea green, very
cooling to the sight and nerves.
All buildings were hosed every morning, which accounted for their
irradiating hues when the sun shone upon them, but at night they
presented an extraordinary appearance, the lights within penetrated the
glass, which absorbed the rays, and cast a dull roseate splendor. One
could walk down rows of glowing houses and yet be in total darkness, but
the streets were flooded with brilliancy from great arc lights suspended
high above the crossings.
Vacant lots enclosed with unsightly board fences were not permitted to
mar the symmetry of this lovely city. Such land was converted into
public parks and kept by the city till the owner, ready to build,
notified the authorities; then after the time limit the wall which
surrounds all private property was erected.
It was very interesting watching the carpenters at their strange house
building. The preciseness, ease, rapidity and methodical attention given
to details produced faultless work. Such conscientiousness was
astounding. I remained till the closing hour, then following the
directions of the foreman soon found my way to the palace.
The setting sun painted the horizon line a fierce crimson and seemed to
sink into the beautiful bay surrounding this most wonderful city. As the
fiery glow faded to a dying pink the lights of the city suddenly flared
with electric splendor, and calm, reposeful twilight was unknown in this
strange land, and night, moist, restful, shaded only the mountains and
wilderness.