A TALE AT A SUPPER PARTY
Two days after they had given their assent to the terms laid upon them
they were removed from the place of durance and conducted by Cleito and
Arniphon, the two officers of the King’s guard, to a house in the lower
part of the city standing in a shaded plantation of trees a few hundred
yards off the Avenue of Ascent, as it was called, which led from the
lake shore to the palace. The house was of simple construction, with
a verandah and balconies adorned with climbing plants to screen from
the heat of the sun; it was two-storied, as were most of the houses in
Atalanta, the guest-rooms below, the sleeping-rooms above. They had,
of course, Tom to wait upon them, but as he knew no more of Atalantan
ways of life than they did themselves, his services were not of much
use. Every one in the land--every man at least--had to provide for
himself and make his house self-supporting, unless he belonged to
the aristocracy, among whom the relation of master and servant still
survived in a modified sort of way. Consequently the Professor, though
a temporary and unwilling citizen of a great city, could not get a
single person to help him, unless it were some one who had fallen into
disgrace.
The Atalantans, it is true, helped one another in all cases of illness
or difficulty or as an expression of private friendship; but the
terrestrials, though objects of unbounded curiosity, were treated as
quite beyond the pale, especially by the women, who would no more have
thought of coming to their house than to a cave of wild beasts.
Consequently, they were for a time almost in danger of being starved.
They were allowed, it is true, to have their earthly supplies from
the machine, but this could only be temporary at best, and they were
far from wishful to strip the Asteroid bare, for they did not know
what future use they might have for them. The King now and again
sent them gifts from the palace, but these were not so often edible
as their needs required. Tom once tried to sell some of the King’s
gifts for food, but fortunately for his life he could not make himself
understood, the Atalantan to whom he offered them declining with
profuse politeness.
“I pointed to my mouth half a dozen times,” protested Tom. “Even a
bloomin’ Frenchman, if I had been in Paris, would have known I wanted a
mutton chop, but that donkey only made me a bow.”
“We shall have to eat grass yet, old fellow,” said Carysfort, “as
though we were donkeys ourselves.”
It may well be imagined that the position of their comrade Abercromby
gave them the most acute uneasiness. Twice a day they were permitted
to hear from him, and he used to write a sentence in English. As he
was not allowed to make any allusion to his own position, he tried to
keep up his spirits and theirs by sending them burlesque mottoes and
maxims, which at least proved that he was very much alive. They were
such as these:--
“Henry the Eighth and King Malchon should have changed planets for the
good of their wives.”
“Is an eclipse of the sun ever produced in these skies by an airship
with a happy man sitting alone in the middle of it?”
“Gladstone would have altered the Home Rule Bill had he been here,”
etc. etc.
Radcliffe, however, felt certain that poor Abercromby was far less
jocose than he represented himself. He would have been very much more
alarmed if he had known that every word he had written was sent in copy
to the palace, even the English writing being imitated. Cleito gave him
a warning intimation coupled with the strange remark that the Princess
Melanitis nearly shook with laughing when she saw the paper. Naturally
puzzled, he told Carmichael about it.
“I should think,” said the Professor, who had very obvious reasons for
what he said, “that this is only another proof that she is quite as
unfeeling as her sister. Perhaps she guesses the import of his remarks,
and chuckles over his useless complaints and sarcasms. You remember
that she did not give you the least help when you made your brave but
vain appeal.”
“I suppose it is so,” replied he in a wearied tone. “I shall not
trouble to find out why she laughed.”
A day or two after this it chanced that Radcliffe was walking by
himself along the promenade by the lake, which reminded him strangely
of some of his holiday haunts in old England. Groups of people were
seated under the trees talking in languid tones, or else listening to
some female singers, who, with quaint-looking instruments and rich,
mellow voices, were singing the praises of the motherland. This was a
very trite subject and pretty well worn, but the people seemed always
to awake to interest at it. As he drew near he heard--
“Sing me the praise of the Land of Light,
Where the Lord of the sky looks down
On the hill and the meadow resplendently bright
Reflecting his glory and crown.
Creation holds not a world so fair
With its sky-piercing hills and its far-spreading air.
“Its people are happy, their faces serene,
Untroubled their lives pass along.
The work of their hands gives them all things I ween,
The fruit of their toil is a song.
Yet fain would we know, when its beauties we miss,
Shall the spirit-clear eyes look on fairer than this?
“Enough, for such questions unanswered must be,
Let not each generation complain;
If life must end in uncertainty,
Let us sing in the absence of pain.
Since the half of our world is so wondrously fair
Why should we grieve if the other be drear?”
Radcliffe felt strongly impelled to stand up and address them, but his
courage failed him just at the critical moment. There was something in
those faces so absolutely self-satisfied, so serenely proud, that it
seemed harder to appeal to them than to the fiercest and most hostile
mob.
“I see you are much interested, stranger, in one of our popular
melodies,” said an Atalantan, who had been watching him closely.
“I wish I could be one of you, even the lowliest, that I might fully
know your ways of thought. How can I possibly be of any use to you
until I do?”
The stranger smiled. “Well, as a means to that end, instead of
listening to poetry that I at least have heard many hundreds of times,
you shall come home to our mansion, which is close by, and sup with us.
We may be able to regale you with better music and song, and you may
tell us something of your own planet. My wife is Mayana, the cousin of
the princesses, and we owe you no small debt of gratitude.”
In a half-dazed condition Radcliffe went in through the noble portico
and into the mansion; there he was led up to Mayana and her younger
sister Minya, who unbent themselves, and gave him a warm greeting.
Supper of fruits and iced drinks was laid upon a side table, and the
Atalantan gentleman served it to the others, not permitting Radcliffe
to serve, as he was a guest.
Conversation flowed freely.
He told them of the journey across space and of their feelings when
they drew near to the city. Again he was profusely thanked for having
averted death and misery, but his efforts to exculpate the others were
not as successful as he had hoped.
The conversation turned upon the court, and Radcliffe sang the praises
of the King in no sparing terms. Cleophon, Mayana’s husband, smiled and
asked why he did not say a word in honour of the two princesses.
“Because I am afraid,” he answered. He thought they would laugh at him,
but they did not.
“There is no serious reason for feeling this,” said Mayana; “you are
high in favour, and may rise higher yet. But naturally we Atalantans
prefer to be ruled by one of our own sex, though we all love and
sympathise with the poor dear old King.”
“Why does he look somewhat sad?” Radcliffe ventured to ask.
“Cleophon, tell the story; our attendants have been requisitioned at
the palace, so we are quite by ourselves,” said Mayana.
“It is a strange tale,” he began. “Years ago the Princess Melanitis
was the joy and brightness of her father’s heart; she was very
high-spirited, an Atalantan of the Atalantans, and looked upon as the
most able ruler who would ever sit upon our throne. She was stricken
down by solar fever, and reduced to the very point of death. The King,
distracted with grief, went to the Temple of the Sun on the lake-island
yonder; he prayed all night to the God of Heaven, and, in his despair,
he used words quite contrary to all justice and moderation. ‘Let her
recover,’ he said, ‘though she be a shame to me and to my house; let
her recover, though she live to break my heart and the hearts of all my
people.’ The high priest told him that his prayer would be answered,
but he would live to rue the day that it was. When he returned to the
palace the princess _had_ recovered. She awoke from the very stupor
of death. She stretched out her arms to him, but when she saw him she
uttered a cry of horror that will not be forgotten by those that heard
it. Her senses returned, and yet they did not return. She could not
speak her own tongue; she did not know the meaning of anything that she
saw; she did not know her way about the city or even the palace. She
was infinitely more helpless than you were when you were made prisoner
by the crowd.”
“How dreadful!” said Radcliffe.
“Malchon recognised his rashness and bowed bravely to it. He summoned
the wisest men of the land, for wisdom seems one of the few things that
we men can claim as our own.”
“_Some_ wisdom,” corrected Mayana.
“Well, I have a king’s word for it. But this is no jesting matter. She
had to be taught everything from the very beginning. Gradually her mind
came back, but her memory of the past never came back; she knew nothing
of her former life except as she was told. But there is a stranger
thing still. When she was again made fit to assume the duties of her
princely station, she seemed to have lost all interest in them; she was
just as clever as before, but her cleverness seemed so very different.
She took up with science, especially astronomy. She was always paying
visits to Aptaura, and would spend hours in the study of the heavens,
of your planet, and of the outer planets. Even her opinions on religion
were different; nothing would induce her to pay her devotions in the
Temple of the Sun. She took a great interest in the old bygone faith
of Atalanta, when men prayed to the God of Heaven directly, and she
gathered all the knowledge attainable as to the visit of the mysterious
Divine Prince who, as you had the courage to tell us, was cruelly put
to death by the inhuman savages in your own world, when He had come to
die for them. Never within living memory was any audience so stirred
as when you gave your straight answer to those awful questions put to
you by her sister. My advice to you is to cultivate the friendship of
Melanitis, and to answer all her enquiries about Karamandra and its
people. You might even do something to chase the clouds from her brow.”
“There have been cases in my own world of people who have been
sun-stricken turning totally different afterwards,” said Radcliffe, who
sat wrapped in thought; “an honest man has been known to steal and to
commit the worst of crimes.”
“I do not wonder,” put in Minya, “that she never worships in the
Temple; her father has never once entered it again.”
“What are her relations with her sister? I would not ask so grave
a question, but for fear lest I may do the princess an injury by
increasing her interest in things foreign to this planet.”
“Pray have no fear on that ground,” replied Mayana. “So utterly has
Melanitis ceased even to care to rule that Mexitli has it all her own
way. Nothing but the will of the King induces Melanitis to be even
considered Queen-Elect, and I have a secret opinion, based on some
words Mexitli dropped to me, that, directly the King dies, there will
be no conflict between them, for Melanitis will resign her claims. They
were bitter enemies once, but they are friendly enough now, though only
those are aware of it who are behind the scenes. But in my inmost heart
I a little despise my elder cousin.”
“A former King of Atalanta gave up the crown,” murmured Cleophon.
“Yes, but he was a _man_,” said Mayana; “you will not find a _queen_
doing so.”
“I take my corrections as I take my exercise--philosophically,”
answered Cleophon.
“You are the best of your sex,” replied Mayana; “I have no fault to
find with you.”
Radcliffe rose, and bidding his host and hostess farewell, took his
departure after Minya had sung in her beautiful voice two or three
patriotic songs, “How Keraunion died for his friend,” “Make the best of
half a world,” “One only nation.”
“The Prince died in Karamandra for His enemies,” remarked Mayana
thoughtfully; “I suppose that was better. But we never treated Him like
that.”
“Lady,” said Radcliffe, “are there not slights that are injuries more
painful than death?”
“Perhaps there are. You doubtless accuse us in the days of old for
letting Him depart without a welcome, because our pride could not
understand His humility. Well, if we were wrong, we have been punished,
for we have had no one to teach us ever since.”
“I labour under the triple disadvantage of being a Karamandran, a man,
and, at every step I take, under the shadow of death, but I will tell
you all I know, and all He taught in my own world.”
Mayana coloured slightly, but the intense earnestness of the speaker
disarmed her. “You can if you like,” she said; “I will see you again
and you shall talk to us. But Melanitis is the one most certain to take
up with these new ideas.”
“You must be very careful what you do,” observed Cleophon. “You will
have bitter prejudices to overcome. We are not a teachable people, we
think we know all things, and where we admit our ignorance, we withhold
our interest.”
“At least this is a house full of friends and you are welcome,” said
Mayana, and with these words in his ears Clarence Radcliffe turned
away to enter the palace avenue, and then to the little dwelling in
the light blue plantation which was supposed to be their home. For a
moment his sense of utter loneliness was almost overwhelming. He wished
himself anywhere, even facing again the perils of space.
Home! Where was it? All places and even all planets seemed alike. The
shadow of an airship passed overhead and uttered its peculiar wailing
cry. This gave him the explanation of their startling surprise, and
also something to think about.