I DISCOVER THE SINGER.
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 singers. Zenith and Foedric were exceptionally
good, but no one except Avis possessed the peculiar charm of Mona.