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.”
CHAPTER XXV. AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER.
It was delightful to live in the same world with Mona, not for me only but for every one who knew her. No one could help loving her; there was simply nothing else to do. Others did not make as much show of their affection as I did, perhaps because no one else was selfish enough to claim the same personal rights in her, but I found every new acquaintance she made succumbed to the power of her many charms. The secret of this general homage was her own loving nature, which just worked itself out spontaneously, but the more her love was shed abroad the more she retained for new-comers. At first my naturally jealous disposition continued to give me long hours of anguish, but I happily was able to overcome this to a great extent as I became better acquainted with her marvelous spirit.
Although I was at that time too much under the spell of this fair creature to form an unprejudiced judgment of her, I have since then attempted something of the kind, in comparing her in my mind with Antonia and others whom we met in Mars. Let me say that the Martians are not a perfect race. With our undeveloped spiritual natures we could not, during our entire visit, see any imperfections in them; but, as will be seen further on in this narrative, our good friends Thorwald and Zenith, under whose instructions kind fortune had placed us, were particular to tell us that their race had reached only an advanced state of civilization, to which the earth might one day attain, and that perfection was still a dream of the future. Taking Antonia, then, as a representative of her kind, I can see that she had a solidly formed character. She was what she was, not because she could not help it but because she herself willed it. That is, when she might have done wrong she chose to do right. Her connection with temptation was not entirely through her remote ancestors, whose sins filled such a large page in their history, but she herself had felt drawings toward evil. Yet so slightly had she yielded, and so strongly had her right years of living buttressed her against all kinds of wrong, that she, as well as all of her race whom we saw, appeared to us about perfect. Theoretically she might transgress, but practically it was all but impossible. Hers, then, was a truly noble character, and when she gave her love to Foedric he had good reason to be proud of the gift. Nor did she defraud others of their due, but her heart was open to every proper call.
Such was Antonia, one whom we could in some degree appreciate, although so far above us. But how could we understand a being like Mona, who told us, and we saw no reason to disbelieve her, that she had never known what it was to do wrong? She seemed as incapable of evil as the birds of the air, or, to make the comparison still stronger, as a beautiful rose. She was guileless by nature, and goodness and truth were as much a part of her as her beauty was. She was made to be a joy and comfort to every creature brought within the circle of her influence, and she could no more help loving than the sun can help shining. All who came near her received a share of her gracious beams.