MY conversation with Elodia had the effect of crystallizing my nebulous plans about visiting the Caskians into a sudden resolve. I could not remain longer in her presence without pain to myself; and, to tell the truth, I dreaded lest her astounding lack of the moral sense—which should be the foundation stone of woman's character—would eventually dull my own. Men are notoriously weak where women are concerned—the women they worship.
As soon as I had communicated with the Caskians and learned that they were still anticipating my coming, with—they were so kind as to say it—the greatest pleasure, I prepared to set forth.
In the meantime, an event occurred which further illustrated the social conditions in Paleveria. Claris, the wife of Massilla, died very suddenly, and I was astonished at the tremendous sensation the circumstance occasioned throughout the city. It seemed to me that the only respect it was possible to pay to the memory of such a woman must be that which is expressed in absolute Elodia was of course the chief figure in the procession, and she bore herself with a grave and solemn dignity in keeping with the ceremonies. The sight of her beautiful face, with its subdued but lofty expression, was more than I could bear. I leaned forward and dropped my face in my hands, and let the sorrow-laden requiem rack my soul with its sweet torture as it would. That was my last day in Thursia. I had at first thought of taking my aeroplane along with me, reflecting that I might better begin my homeward flight from some mountain top in Caskia; but Severnius would not hear of that. "No indeed!" said he, "you must return to us again. I wish to get ready a budget for you to carry back to your astronomers, which I think will be of value to them, as I shall make a complete map of the heavens as they appear to us. Then we shall be eager to hear about your visit. And besides, we want to see you again on the ground of friendship, the strongest reason of all!" "You are too kind!" I responded with much feeling. I knew that he was as sincere as he was polite. This was at the last moment, and Elodia was present to bid me "good-by." She seconded her brother's invitation,—"O, yes, of course you must come back!" and turned the whole power of her beautiful face upon me, and for the first time gave me her hand. I had coveted it a hundred times as it lay lissome and white in her lap. I clasped it, palm to palm. It was as smooth as satin, and not moist,—I dislike a I had become accustomed to the atmosphere of Paleveria, "The little ponies could not draw our friend up the hill, he is too heavy," explained Clytia. "Thank you, my little man, all the same!" I added. It was midsummer in Paleveria, but here I observed everything had the newness and delightful freshness of spring. A busy, bustling, joyous, tuneful spring. The grass was green and succulent; the sap was in the trees and their bark was sleek and glossy, their leaves just unrolled. Of the wild fruit trees, every branch and twig was loaded with eager buds crowding upon each other as the heads of children crowd at a cottage window when one goes by. Every thicket was full of bird life and music. I heard the roar of a waterfall in the distance, and Calypso told me that a mighty river, the Eudosa, gathered from a hundred mountain streams, was compressed into a deep gorge or canyon and fell in a succession of cataracts just below the city, and finally spread out into a lovely lake, which was a wonder in its way, being many fathoms deep and as transparent as the atmosphere. We paused to listen,—the children also. "How loud it is to-day, Mamma," exclaimed Freya. His mother assented and turned to me with a smile. "The falls of Eudosa constitute a large part of our life up here," she said; "we note all its moods, which are many. Sometimes it is drowsy, and purrs and murmurs; again it is merry, and sings; or it is sublime, and rises to a thunderous roar. Always it is sound. Do you know, my ears ached with the silence when I was down in Paleveria!" I have said Clytia's eyes were black; it was not an opaque Crystal streams trickled down from the mountains and were utilized for practical and æsthetic purposes. Small parks, exquisitely pretty, were very numerous, and in them the sparkling water was made to play curious pranks. Each of these spots was an ideal resting place, and I saw many elderly people enjoying them,—people whom I took to be from sixty to seventy years of age, but who, I was astonished to learn, were all upwards of a hundred. Perfect health and longevity are among the rewards of right living practiced from generation to generation. The forms of these old people were erect and their faces were beautiful in intelligence and sweetness of expression. "No, not especially," returned Calypso, "it is about the same all over." "Is it possible! then you must all be rich?" said I. "We have no very poor," he replied, "though of course some have larger possessions than others. We have tried, several times in the history of our race, to equalize the wealth of the country, but the experiment has always failed, human nature varies so much." "What, even here?" I asked. "What do you mean?" said he. "Why, I understand that you Caskians have attained to a most perfect state of development and culture, and—" I hesitated and he smiled. "And you think the process eliminates individual traits?" he inquired. Clytia laughingly added: "I hope, sir, you did not expect to find us all exactly alike, that would be too tame!" "You compliment me most highly," said Calypso, seriously, "but we must not permit you to suppose that we regard our 'development' as anywhere near perfect, In fact, the farther we advance, the greater, and the grander, appears the excellence to which we have not yet attained. Though it would be false modesty—and a disrespect to our ancestors—not to admit that we are conscious of having made some progress, as a race. We know what our beginnings were, and what we now are." After a moment he went on: I understood this better later on, after I had met a greater number of people, and after my perceptions had become more delicate and acute,—or when a kind of initiatory experience had taught me how to see and to value excellence. A few years ago a border of nasturtiums exhibited no more than a single color tone, the pumpkin yellow; and a bed of pansies resembled a patch of purple heather. Observe now the chromatic variety and beauty produced by intelligent horticulture! A group of commonplace people—moderately disciplined by culture—might be compared to the pansies and nasturtiums of our early recollection, and a group of these highly refined Caskians to the delicious flowers abloom in modern gardens. We crave variety in people, as we crave condiments in food. For me, this craving was never so satisfied—and at the same time so thoroughly stimulated—as in Caskian society, which had a spiciness of flavor impossible to describe. Formality was disarmed by perfect breeding, there was nothing that you could call "manner." The delicate faculty of intuition produced harmony. I never knew a single instance in which the social atmosphere was disagreeably jarred,—a common enough occurrence where we depend upon the machinery of social order rather than upon the vital principle of good conduct. I inquired of Calypso, as we walked along, the sources of the people's wealth. He replied that the mountains were full of it. There were minerals and precious stones, and metals in great "Physical labor, however," he added, "is reduced to the minimum; machinery has taken the place of muscle." "And thrown an army of workers out of employment and the means of living, I suppose?" I rejoined, taking it for granted that the small share-holders had been squeezed out, as well as the small operators. "O, no, indeed," he returned, in surprise. "It has simply given them more leisure. Everybody now enjoys the luxury of spare time, and may devote his energies to the service of other than merely physical needs." He smiled as he went on, "This labor problem the Creator gave us was a knotty one, wasn't it? But what a tremendous satisfaction there is in the thought—and in the fact—that we have solved it." I was in the dark now, and waited for him to go on. "To labor incessantly, to strain the muscles, fret the mind, and weary the soul, and to shorten the life, all for the sake of supplying the wants of the body, and nothing more, is, I think, an inconceivable hardship. And to have invoked the forces of the insensate elements and laid our burdens upon them, is a glorious triumph." "Yes, if all men are profited by it," I returned doubtfully. "They are, of course," said he, "at least with us. I was shocked "I don't see how you manage it otherwise," I confessed. "It belongs to the history of past generations," he replied. "Perhaps the hardest struggle our progenitors had was to conquer the lusts of the flesh,—of which the greed of wealth is doubtless the greatest. They began to realize, generations ago, that Mars was rich enough to maintain all his children in comfort and even luxury,—that none need hunger, or thirst, or go naked or houseless, and that more than this was vanity and vain-glory. And just as they, with intense assiduity, sought out and cultivated nature's resources—for the reduction of labor and the increase of wealth—so they sought out and cultivated within themselves corresponding resources, those fit to meet the new era of material prosperity; namely, generosity and brotherly love." "Then you really and truly practice what you preach!" said I, with scant politeness, and I hastened to add, "Severnius told me that you recognize the trinity in human nature. Well, we do, too, upon the Earth, but the Three have hardly an equal chance! We preach the doctrine considerably more than we practice it." "I understand that you are a highly intellectual people," remarked Calypso, courteously. "Yes, I suppose we are," said I; "our achievements in that line are nothing to be ashamed of. And," I added, remembering some felicitous sensations of my own, "there is no greater delight than the travail of intellect which brings forth great ideas." "Pardon me!" he returned, "the travail of soul which brings We had reached the terrace, or little plateau, on which my friends’ house stood; it was like a strip of green velvet for color and smoothness. The house was built of rough gray stone which showed silver glintings in the sun. Here and there, delicate vines clung to the walls. There was a carriage porch—into which the children drove—and windows jutting out into the light, and many verandas and little balconies, that seemed to give the place a friendly and hospitable air. Above there was a spacious observatory, in which was mounted a very fine telescope that must have cost a fortune,—though my friends were not enormously rich, as I had learned from Severnius. But these people do not regard the expenditure of even very large sums of money for the means of the best instruction and the best pleasures as extravagance, if no one suffers in consequence. I cannot go into their economic system very extensively here, but I may say that it provides primarily that all shall share bountifully in the general good; and after that, individuals may gratify their respective tastes—or rather, satisfy their higher needs; for their tastes are never fanciful, but always real—as they can afford. I do not mean that this is a written law, a formal edict, to be evaded by such cunning devices as we know in our land, or at best loosely construed; nor is it a mere sentiment preached from pulpits and glorified in literature,—a beautiful but impracticable conception! It is purely a moral law, and being such it is a vital principle in each individual consciousness. The telescope was Calypso's dearest possession, but I never doubted his willingness to give it up, if there should come a time Back of the house there rose a long succession of hills, ending finally in snowcapped mountains, the highest of which was called the Spear, so sharply did it thrust its head up through the clouds into the heavens. The lower hills had been converted into vineyards. A couple of men were fixing the trellises, the Calypso excused himself to his wife and me and went over to them. A neatly dressed maid came out of the house and greeted the children, who had much important news to relate concerning their drive; and a last year's bird-nest to show her, which they took pains to explain was quite useless to the birds, who were all making nice new nests. The sight of the maid,—evidently an intelligent and well-bred girl,—whose face beamed affectionately upon the little ones, prompted a question from me: "How do you manage about your servants, I mean house servants," I asked; "do you have people here who are willing to do menial work?" Clytia looked up at me with an odd expression. Her answer, coming from any one less sincere, would have sounded like cant. "We do not regard any work as mean." "Not if you love those for whom you labor," she returned. "A mother does not consider any sort of service to her child degrading." "O, I know that," said I; "that is simply natural affection." "But natural affection, you know, is only the germ of love. It is narrow,—only a little broader than selfishness." "Well, tell me how it applies in this question of service?" I asked. "I am not able to comprehend it in the abstract." "We do not require people to do anything for us which we would not do for ourselves, or for them," she said. "And then, we all work. We believe in work; it means strength to the body and relief to the mind. No one permits himself to be served by another for the unworthy reason, openly or tacitly confessed, that he is either too proud, or too indolent, to serve himself." "Then why have servants at all?" I asked. "My husband explained to you," she returned, "that our people are not all equally rich; and they are not all adapted to what you would call, perhaps, the higher grades of service. You see the little maid yonder with the children; she has the gifts of a teacher,—our teachers are very carefully chosen, and as carefully instructed. She has been placed with me for our mutual benefit,—I could not intrust my little ones to the care of a mere paid nurse who thought only of her wages. Nor could she work simply for wages. The money consideration is the smallest item in the arrangement. My husband superintends some steel works in which he has some shares. The man he is talking with now—who is attending to the grape vines—has also a large interest in the steel works, but he has no taste or faculty for engaging
When I became more familiar with the household, I found that the same relations existed all round; mutual pleasure, mutual sympathy, mutual helpfulness. First there seemed to be on the part of each employee a distinct preference and liking for the kind of work he or she had undertaken to do; second, a fitness and careful preparation for the work; and last, the love of doing for those who gave appreciation, love, and another sort of service or assistance in return. I heard one of them say one day: "I ask nothing better than to be permitted to cook the meals for these dear people!" This was a woman who wrote monthly articles on chemistry and botany for one of the leading scientific journals. She was a middle-aged woman and unmarried, who did not wish to live alone, who abhorred "boarding," and who had found just such a comfortable nest in Clytia's home as suited all her needs and desires. Of course she did not slave in the kitchen all day long, and her position did not debar her from the best and most intelligent society, nor cut her off from the pleasure and privileges that sweeten life. She brought her scientific knowledge to the preparation of the food she set before us, and took as much pride in the results of her skill as an inventor takes in his appliances. And such wholesome, delicious, well-cooked dishes I have never eaten elsewhere. Clytia believed in intelligently prepared food, as she believed in intelligent instruction for her children; she would have thought it a crime to set an ignorant person over her kitchen.