“Progression by degrees is more thorough.” The people pleaded and vetoed the order “to abolish all Sun Temples and erect new houses of worship to Him, who is supreme.”
Centauri wished to found a new sect and when learning of the veto, sorrowfully remarked: “I have ignored the Gradual, yet will live to realize the suggestion as fact.” He sacrificed his wish to the people. He set a new value upon Trade, which in this ideal world defined the full significance of the word—merchandise for merchandise—limiting the circulation of currency to such an extent that in the present era of plenty money was superfluous, and exchanged merely for form in trifling transactions.
Many schools, libraries were stationed throughout the city; handsome buildings luxuriously equipped. Private institutions had long been abolished, young ladies’ seminaries and muscle-developing colleges, where fancy sums are expended for a veneer which renders the subject pitifully unfit, lacking even the ability to assist themselves in necessity. Mere useless toys of frivolity issued yearly from stilted preparatories—unseasoned veal garnished with underdone dumplings, a saute, to the dismay of our ancestors, is called the rising generation—were forgotten nuisances. In this marvelously enlightened world greed, cupidity were traits of mediæval times, merit rose superior to capricious “influence,” students were ambitious, sincere in their efforts and sought elevation till they passed away to new spheres. Centur had many magnificent theaters, all with a remarkable roof contrivance. At a moment’s notice the whole top of the building could be removed, sliding upon hinges and resting at the side of the house upon props like a huge box cover.
The opera house was by far the handsomest building of its kind in the city. The interior was indescribably beautiful, lavish, rich, wantonly luxurious, with a seating capacity for twenty thousand.
The Centaurians had still to conquer their passion for music, but comedy was the chief amusement, caged in a bijou of art splendid with elaborate decorations of foolish clowns, mirth-inspiring masks and rare, exquisite etchings of fair Folly in various beckoning attitudes. These wise children, with their wonderful clarity of thought, had long digested the happiness of laughter, but realized the absolute necessity of variation. Gloom spiced delight; ennui was strictly a product of my own country.
Tragedy was a classic, a profound culture, and was lodged in a sombre, stately building bearing the nearest approach to a prison I had yet encountered—a handsome monument to Melancholia, rich in antiquity. There were whole scenes of famous tragedies produced in wonderful paintings startlingly vivid with the misery of reality shadowed in a background of heavy, costly, dull-hued fabrics. I grew wretched with homesickness in the dolorous aura, dense with the miasma of rank perfumes. The theater reminded me of those of my own world during the sad day time, illy ventilated, morose half light, and the usual freezing shower to the imagination which impels you to seek fresh air with alacrity. Tragedy was unpopular with the Centaurians. Thespians were forced to work before the uninspiring view of rows of empty seats, their efforts critically watched by scant audiences, unresponsive, stony, occasionally applauding, invariably at the wrong time. And the actors, adepts in the art of mechanism, waded through their parts with not the slightest conception or sympathy—marionettes.
The culture of progression reduced tragedy to the greatest of farces, and fatalities were shelved by the generation of the wonderful present. The knowledge of the “diseased art, relic of the dark ages,” was culled from the histories of the ancients.
Fascinated, I tramped throughout this marvelous city, congratulating myself that I was without a guide. The lost, strange feeling was delightful. I had not the remotest idea where I was going, but noticed the avenues grew broader, dwellings farther apart and gardens larger, more gorgeous, finally terminating in the city’s wall, a shallow forest of magnificent trees circling Centur like a great feathery belt; beyond stretched a broad vista of lovely verdant country, but the blue line of distance seemed strangely cut and uneven, a shadowy obstruction reared to a tremendous height extending over the land for miles.
Curious, I wandered to the edge of the forest wall, resting a few minutes, undecided whether to advance or turn back; then I struck out direct over the soft green fields, avoiding the road, which is always the longest route. Why?
The heat was intense, the journey long, tedious, but in the glorious end fatigue was forgotten. I finally reached a high, massive iron trellis wall, through which I peered at a scene; ah! entrancing, Eden-like, veiled with the enchantment of mystery. I found the ponderous gates invitingly wide and dared to enter this strangely still sphere of illusion, dense with overpowering, exotic odors of millions of brilliant-hued blossoms. I gorged my sight with the rainbow tinted vision, then waded neck deep in the wild, flowery maze, wondering for all the heavy-scented fascination just why this paradise had been created.