THE MAN IN THE MOON.
The children came willingly. With one of them on each side of me, I
approached the corner occupied by ‘Mein Herr.’ “You don’t object to
_children_, I hope?” I began.
“_Crabbed age and youth cannot live together!_” the old man cheerfully
replied, with a most genial smile. “Now take a good look at me, my
children! You would guess me to be an _old_ man, wouldn’t you?”
At first sight, though his face had reminded me so mysteriously of “the
Professor,” he had seemed to be decidedly a _younger_ man: but, when I
came to look into the wonderful depth of those large dreamy eyes, I
felt, with a strange sense of awe, that he was incalculably _older_: he
seemed to gaze at us out of some by-gone age, centuries away.
[Illustration: MEIN HERR’S FAIRY-FRIENDS]
“I don’t know if oo’re an _old_ man,” Bruno answered, as the children,
won over by the gentle voice, crept a little closer to him. “I thinks
oo’re _eighty-three_.”
“He is very exact!” said Mein Herr.
“Is he anything like right?” I said.
“There are reasons,” Mein Herr gently replied, “reasons which I am not
at liberty to explain, for not mentioning _definitely_ any Persons,
Places, or Dates. One remark only I will permit myself to make—that the
period of life, between the ages of a hundred-and-sixty-five and a
hundred-and-seventy-five, is a specially _safe_ one.”
“How do you make that out?” I said.
“Thus. You would consider swimming to be a very safe amusement, if you
scarcely ever heard of any one dying of it. Am I not right in thinking
that you never heard of any one dying between those two ages?”
“I see what you mean,” I said: “but I’m afraid you ca’n’t prove
_swimming_ to be safe, on the same principle. It is no uncommon thing to
hear of some one being _drowned_.”
“In _my_ country,” said Mein Herr, “no one is _ever_ drowned.”
“Is there no water deep enough?”
“Plenty! But we ca’n’t _sink_. We are all _lighter than water_. Let me
explain,” he added, seeing my look of surprise. “Suppose you desire a
race of _pigeons_ of a particular shape or colour, do you not select,
from year to year, those that are nearest to the shape or colour you
want, and keep those, and part with the others?”
“We do,” I replied. “We call it ‘Artificial Selection.’”
“Exactly so,” said Mein Herr. “Well, _we_ have practised that for some
centuries—constantly selecting the _lightest_ people: so that, now,
_everybody_ is lighter than water.”
“Then you never can be drowned at _sea_?”
“Never! It is only on the _land_—for instance, when attending a play in
a theatre—that we are in such a danger.”
“How can that happen at a _theatre_?”
“Our theatres are all _underground_. Large tanks of water are placed
above. If a fire breaks out, the taps are turned, and in one minute the
theatre is flooded, up to the very roof! Thus the fire is extinguished.”
“_And_ the audience, I presume?”
“That is a minor matter,” Mein Herr carelessly replied. “But they have
the comfort of knowing that, whether drowned or not, they are all
_lighter than water_. We have not yet reached the standard of making
people lighter than _air_: but we are _aiming_ at it; and, in another
thousand years or so——”
“What doos oo do wiz the peoples that’s too heavy?” Bruno solemnly
enquired.
“We have applied the same process,” Mein Herr continued, not noticing
Bruno’s question, “to many other purposes. We have gone on selecting
_walking-sticks_—always keeping those that walked _best_—till we have
obtained some, that can walk by themselves! We have gone on selecting
_cotton-wool_, till we have got some lighter than air! You’ve no idea
what a useful material it is! We call it ‘Imponderal.’”
“What do you use it for?”
“Well, chiefly for _packing_ articles, to go by Parcel-Post. It makes
them weigh _less than nothing_, you know.”
“And how do the Post-Office people know what you have to pay?”
“That’s the beauty of the new system!” Mein Herr cried exultingly. “They
pay _us_: we don’t pay _them_! I’ve often got as much as five shillings
for sending a parcel.”
“But doesn’t your Government object?”
“Well, they _do_ object, a little. They say it comes so expensive, in
the long run. But the thing’s as clear as daylight, by their own rules.
If I send a parcel, that weighs a pound _more_ than nothing, I _pay_
three-pence: so, of course, if it weighs a pound _less_ than nothing, I
ought to _receive_ three-pence.”
“It is _indeed_ a useful article!” I said.
“Yet even ‘Imponderal’ has its disadvantages,” he resumed. “I bought
some, a few days ago, and put it into my _hat_, to carry it home, and
the hat simply floated away!”
“Had oo some of that funny stuff in oor hat _today_?” Bruno enquired.
“Sylvie and me saw oo in the road, and oor hat were ever so high up!
Weren’t it, Sylvie?”
“No, that was quite another thing.” said Mein Herr. “There was a drop or
two of rain falling: so I put my hat on the top of my stick—as an
umbrella, you know. As I came along the road,” he continued, turning to
me, “I was overtaken by——”
“——a shower of rain?” said Bruno.
“Well, it _looked_ more like the tail of a dog,” Mein Herr replied. “It
was the most curious thing! Something rubbed affectionately against my
knee. And I looked down. And I could see _nothing_! Only, about a yard
off, there was a dog’s tail, wagging, all by itself!”
“Oh, _Sylvie_!” Bruno murmured reproachfully. “Oo didn’t finish making
him visible!”
“I’m _so_ sorry!” Sylvie said, looking very penitent. “I meant to rub it
along his back, but we were in such a hurry. We’ll go and finish him
tomorrow. Poor thing! Perhaps he’ll get no supper tonight!”
“_Course_ he won’t!” said Bruno. “Nobody never gives bones to a dog’s
tail!”
Mein Herr looked from one to the other in blank astonishment. “I do not
understand you,” he said. “I had lost my way, and I was consulting a
pocket-map, and somehow I had dropped one of my gloves, and this
invisible _Something_, that had rubbed against my knee, actually brought
it back to me!”
“Course he did!” said Bruno. “He’s _welly_ fond of fetching things.”
Mein Herr looked so thoroughly bewildered that I thought it best to
change the subject. “What a useful thing a pocket-map is!” I remarked.
“That’s another thing we’ve learned from _your_ Nation,” said Mein Herr,
“map-making. But we’ve carried it much further than _you_. What do you
consider the _largest_ map that would be really useful?”
“About six inches to the mile.”
“Only _six inches_!” exclaimed Mein Herr. “We very soon got to six
_yards_ to the mile. Then we tried a _hundred_ yards to the mile. And
then came the grandest idea of all! We actually made a map of the
country, on the scale of _a mile to the mile_!”
“Have you used it much?” I enquired.
“It has never been spread out, yet,” said Mein Herr: “the farmers
objected: they said it would cover the whole country, and shut out the
sunlight! So we now use the country itself, as its own map, and I assure
you it does nearly as well. Now let me ask you _another_ question. What
is the smallest _world_ you would care to inhabit?”
“_I_ know!” cried Bruno, who was listening intently. “I’d like a little
teeny-tiny world, just big enough for Sylvie and me!”
“Then you would have to stand on opposite sides of it,” said Mein Herr.
“And so you would never see your sister _at all_!”
“And I’d have no _lessons_,” said Bruno.
“You don’t mean to say you’ve been trying experiments in _that_
direction!” I said.
“Well, not _experiments_ exactly. We do not profess to _construct_
planets. But a scientific friend of mine, who has made several
balloon-voyages, assures me he has visited a planet so small that he
could walk right round it in twenty minutes! There had been a great
battle, just before his visit, which had ended rather oddly: the
vanquished army ran away at full speed, and in a very few minutes found
themselves face-to-face with the victorious army, who were marching home
again, and who were so frightened at finding themselves between _two_
armies, that they surrendered at once! Of course that lost them the
battle, though, as a matter of fact, they had killed _all_ the soldiers
on the other side.”
“Killed soldiers _ca’n’t_ run away,” Bruno thoughtfully remarked.
“‘Killed’ is a technical word,” replied Mein Herr. “In the little planet
I speak of, the bullets were made of soft black stuff, which marked
everything it touched. So, after a battle, all you had to do was to
count how many soldiers on each side were ‘killed’—that means ‘marked on
the _back_,’ for marks in _front_ didn’t count.”
“Then you couldn’t ‘kill’ any, unless they ran away?” I said.
“My scientific friend found out a better plan than _that_. He pointed
out that, if only the bullets were sent _the other way round the world_,
they would hit the enemy in the _back_. After that, the _worst_ marksmen
were considered the _best_ soldiers; and _the very worst of all_ always
got First Prize.”
“And how did you decide which was _the very worst of all_?”
“Easily. The _best_ possible shooting is, you know, to hit what is
exactly in _front_ of you: so of course the _worst_ possible is to hit
what is exactly _behind_ you.”
“They were strange people in that little planet!” I said.
“They were indeed! Perhaps their method of _government_ was the
strangest of all. In _this_ planet, I am told, a Nation consists of a
number of Subjects, and one King: but, in the little planet I speak of,
it consisted of a number of _Kings_, and one _Subject_!”
“You say you are ‘told’ what happens in _this_ planet,” I said. “May I
venture to guess that you yourself are a visitor from some _other_
planet?”
Bruno clapped his hands in his excitement. “Is oo the Man-in-the-Moon?”
he cried.
Mein Herr looked uneasy. “I am _not_ in the Moon, my child,” he said
evasively. “To return to what I was saying. I think _that_ method of
government ought to answer _well_. You see, the Kings would be sure to
make Laws contradicting each other: so the Subject could never be
punished, because, _whatever_ he did, he’d be obeying _some_ Law.”
“And, whatever he did, he’d be _dis_obeying _some_ Law!” cried Bruno.
“So he’d _always_ be punished!”
Lady Muriel was passing at the moment, and caught the last word.
“Nobody’s going to be punished _here_!” she said, taking Bruno in her
arms. “This is Liberty-Hall! Would you lend me the children for a
minute?”
“The children desert us, you see,” I said to Mein Herr, as she carried
them off: “so we old folk must keep each other company!”
The old man sighed. “Ah, well! We’re old folk _now_; and yet I was a
child myself, once—at least I fancy so.”
It _did_ seem a rather unlikely fancy, I could not help owning to
myself—looking at the shaggy white hair, and the long beard—that he
could _ever_ have been a child. “You are fond of young people?” I said.
“Young _men_,” he replied. “Not of _children_ exactly. I used to teach
young men—many a year ago—in my dear old University!”
“I didn’t quite catch its _name_?” I hinted.
“I did not name it,” the old man replied mildly. “Nor would you know the
name if I did. Strange tales I could tell you of all the changes I have
witnessed there! But it would weary you, I fear.”
“No, _indeed_!” I said. “Pray go on. What kind of changes?”
But the old man seemed to be more in a humour for questions than for
answers. “Tell me,” he said, laying his hand impressively on my arm,
“tell me something. For I am a stranger in your land, and I know little
of _your_ modes of education: yet something tells me _we_ are further on
than _you_ in the eternal cycle of change—and that many a theory _we_
have tried and found to fail, _you_ also will try, with a wilder
enthusiasm: you also will find to fail, with a bitterer despair!”
It was strange to see how, as he talked, and his words flowed more and
more freely, with a certain rhythmic eloquence, his features seemed to
glow with an inner light, and the whole man seemed to be transformed, as
if he had grown fifty years younger in a moment of time.