“He who rests on what he is, has a destiny above destiny, and can make mouths at fortune."
EMERSON.
“Work out your own salvation."
ST. PAUL.
I HAD a feeling, when I retired to my room that night, as if years lay between me and the portion of my life which I had spent in Paleveria. But across the wide gulf my soul embraced Severnius. All that was beautiful, and lovable, and noble in that far-off country centered in him, as light centres in a star.
But of Elodia I could not think without pain. I even felt a kind of helpless rage mingling with the pain, — remembering that it was simply the brutality of the social system under which she had been reared, that had stamped so hideous a brand upon a character so fair. I contrasted her in my mind with the women asleep in the rooms about me, whose thoughts were as pure as the thoughts of a child. Had she been born here, I reflected, she would have been like Clytia, like Ariadne. And oh! the pity of it, that she had not!
I was restless, wakeful, miserable, thinking of her; remembering her wit, her intelligence, her power; remembering how charming she was, how magnetic, and alas! how faulty!
She gave delight to all about her, and touched all life with color. But she was like a magnificent bouquet culled from the gardens of wisdom and beauty; a thing of but temporary value, whose fragrance must soon be scattered, whose glory must soon pass away.
Ariadne was the white and slender lily, slowly unfolding petal after petal in obedience to the law of its own inner growth. Should the blossom be torn asunder its perfume would rise as incense about its destroyer, and from the life hidden at its root would come forth more perfect blossoms and more delicate fragrance.
I had arrived at this estimate of her character by a process more unerring and far swifter than reason. You might call it spiritual telegraphy. The thought of her not only restored but immeasurably increased my faith in woman; and I fell asleep at last soothed and comforted.
I awoke in the morning to the sound of singing. It was Ariadne’s voice, and she was touching the strings of a harp. All Caskians sing, and all are taught to play upon at least one musical instrument. Every household is an orchestra.
Ariadne’s voice was exceptionally fine — where all voices were excellent. Its quality was singularly bird-like; sometimes it was the joyous note of the lark, and again it was the tenderly sweet, and passionately sad, dropping-song of the mocking-bird.
When I looked out of my window, the sun was just silvering the point of the Spear, and light wreaths of mist were lifting from the valleys. I saw the Master, staff in hand, going up toward the mountains, and Fides was coming across the hills.
I had wondered, when I saw the Master and his wife on the balcony the night before, how they came to be there at such an hour on such a night. I took the first opportunity to find out. The only way to find out about people’s affairs in Caskia, is by asking questions, or, by observation — which takes longer. They speak with their lives instead of their tongues, concerning so many things that other people are wordy about. They are quite devoid of theories. But they are charmingly willing to impart what one wishes to know.
I learned that Clytia’s parents lived within a stone’s throw of her house on one side, and Calypso’s grandparents at about the same distance on the other. And I also learned that it was an arrangement universally practiced; the clustering together of families, in order that the young might always be near at hand to support, and protect, and to smooth the pathway of the old. Certain savage races upon the Earth abandon the aged to starvation and death; certain other races, not savage, abandon them to a loneliness that is only less cruel. But these extraordinarily just people repay to the helplessness of age, the tenderness and care, the loving sympathy, which they themselves received in the helplessness of infancy.
The grandparents happened to be away from home, and I did not meet them for some days.
On that first morning we had Clytia’s parents to breakfast. Immediately after breakfast the circle broke up. It was Clytia’s morning to visit and assist in the school which her little ones attended; Ariadne started off to her work, with a fresh cluster of the delicious blue flowers in her belt; and I had the choice of visiting the steel-works with Calypso, or taking a trip to Lake Eudosa, on foot, with the Master. I could hardly conceal the delight with which I decided in favor of the latter. We set off at once, and what a walk it was! A little way through the city, and then across a strip of lush green meadow, starred with daisies, thence into sweet-smelling woods, and then down, down, down, along the rocky edge of the canyon, past the deafening waterfalls to the wonderful Lake!
We passed, on our way through the city, a large, fine structure which, upon inquiry, I found to be the place where the Master “taught” on the Sabbath day.
“Do you wish to look in?” he asked, and we turned back and entered. The interior was beautiful and vast, capacious enough to seat several thousand people; and every Sunday it was filled.
I thought it a good opportunity for finding out something about the religion of this people, and I began by asking:
“Are there any divisions in your Church, — different denominations, I mean?”
He seemed unable to comprehend me, and I was obliged to enter into an explanation, which I made as simple as possible, of course, relative to the curse of Adam and the plan of redemption. In order that he might understand the importance attaching to our creeds, I told him of the fierce, sanguinary struggles of past ages, and the grave controversies of modern times, pertaining to certain dogmas and tenets, — as to whether they were essential, or nonessential to salvation.
“Salvation from what?” he asked.
“Why, from sin.”
“But how? We know only one way to be saved from sin.”
“And what is that?” I inquired.
“Not to sin.”
“But that is impossible!” I rejoined, feeling that he was trifling with the subject. Though that was unlike him.
“Yes, it is impossible,” he replied, gravely. “God did not make us perfect. He left us something to do for ourselves.”
“That is heretical,” said I. “Don’t you believe in the Fall of Man?”
“No, I think I believe in the Rise of Man,” he answered, smiling.
“O, I keep forgetting,” I exclaimed, “that I am on another planet!”
“And that this planet has different relations with God from what your planet has?” returned he. “I cannot think so, sir; it is altogether a new idea to me, and — pardon me! — an illogical one. We belong to the same system, and why should not the people of Mars have the sentence for sin revoked, as well as the people of Earth? Why should not we have been provided with an intercessor? But tell me, is it really so? — do you upon the Earth not suffer the consequences of your acts?”
“Why, certainly we do,” said I; “while we live. The plan of salvation has reference to the life after death.”
He dropped his eyes to the ground.
“You believe in that life, do you not?” I asked.
“Believe in it!" — he looked up, amazed. “All life is eternal; as long as God lives, we shall live.”
A little later he said:
“You spoke of the fall of man, — what did you mean?”
“That Man was created a perfect being, but through sin became imperfect, so that God could not take him back to Himself, — save by redemption.”
“And God sent His Only Son to the Earth, you say, to redeem your race from the consequences of their own acts?”
“So we believe,” said I.
After another brief silence, he remarked:
“Man did not begin his life upon this planet in perfection.”
At this moment we passed a beautiful garden, in which there was an infinite profusion of flowers in infinite variety.
“Look at those roses!” he exclaimed; “God planted the species, a crude and simple plant, and turned it over to man to do what he might with it; and in the same way he placed man himself here, — to perfect himself if he would. I am not jealous of God, nor envious of you; but just why He should have arranged to spare you all this labor, and commanded us to work out our own salvation, I cannot comprehend.”
It struck me as a remarkable coincidence that he should have used the very words of one of our own greatest logicians.
A longer silence followed. The Master walked with his head inclined, in the attitude of profound thought. At last he drew a deep breath and looked up, relaxing his brows.
“It may be prodigiously presumptuous,” he said, “but I am inclined to think there has been a mistake somewhere.” “How, a mistake?” I asked.
He paid no heed to the question, but said: “Tell me the story, — tell me the exact words, if you can, of this Great Teacher whom you believe to be the Son of God?”
I gave a brief outline of the Saviour’s life and death, and it was a gratification to me — because it seemed, in some sort, an acknowledgment, or concession to my interpretation, — to see that he was profoundly affected.
“Oh!” he cried, — his hands were clenched and his body writhed as with the actual sufferings of the Man of Sorrows, — “that a race of men should have been brought through such awful tribulation to see God! Why could they not accept the truth from his lips?”
“Because they would not. They kept crying ‘Give us a sign,’ and he gave himself to death.”
I grouped together as many of the words of Christ as I could recall, and I was surprised, not only that his memory kept its grasp on them all, but that he was able to see at once their innermost meaning. It was as if he dissolved them in the wonderful alembic of his understanding, and instantly restored them in crystals of pure truth, divested alike of mysticism and remote significance. He took them up, one by one, and held them to the light, as one holds precious gems. He knew them, recognized them, and appraised them with the delight, and comprehensiveness, and the critical judgment of a connoisseur of jewels.
“You believe that Christ came into your world,” he said, “that you ‘might have life.’ That is, he came to teach you that the life of the soul, and not the body, is the real life. He died ‘that you might live,’ but it was not the mere fact of his death that assured your life. He was willing to give up his life in pledge of the truth of what he taught, that you might believe that truth, and act upon that belief, and so gain life. He taught only the truth, — his soul was a fountain of truth. Hence, when he said, Suffer the little children to come unto me, it was as though he said, Teach your children the truths I have taught you. And when he cried in the tenderness of his great and yearning love, Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest, he m............