THE PICTURE TELEGRAPH.
“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 as possible in all ways. Some day I must tell
you through what difficulties we have passed in church ceremonies and
church government.”