“How do you manage in the thinly settled rural districts?” I asked.
“The system is the same,” Edith explained; “the village sample shops are connected by transmitters with the central county warehouse, which may be twenty miles away. The transmission is so swift, though, that the time lost on the way is trifling. But, to save expense, in many counties one set of tubes connect several villages with the warehouse, and then there is time lost waiting for one another. Sometimes it is two or three hours before goods ordered are received. It was so where I was staying last summer, and I found it quite inconvenient.”2
“There must be many other respects also, no doubt, in which the country stores are inferior to the city stores,” I suggested.
“No,” Edith answered, “they are otherwise precisely as good. The sample shop of the smallest village, just like this one, gives you your choice of all the varieties of goods the nation has, for the county warehouse draws on the same source as the city warehouse.”
As we walked home I commented on the great variety in the size and cost of the houses. “How is it,” I asked, “that this difference is consistent with the fact that all citizens have the same income?”
“Because,” Edith explained, “although the income is the same, personal taste determines how the individual shall spend it. Some like fine horses; others, like myself, prefer pretty clothes; and still others want an elaborate table. The rents which the nation receives for these houses vary, according to size, elegance, and location, so that everybody can find something to suit. The larger houses are usually occupied by large families, in which there are several to contribute to the rent; while small families, like ours, find smaller houses more convenient and economical. It is a matter of taste and convenience wholly. I have read that in old times people often kept up establishments and did other things which they could not afford for ostentation, to make people think them richer than they were. Was it really so, Mr. West?”
“I shall have to admit that it was,” I replied.
“Well, you see, it could not be so nowadays; for everybody’s income is known, and it is known that what is spent one way must be saved another.”
XI
When we arrived home, Dr. Leete had not yet returned, and Mrs. Leete was not visible. “Are you fond of music, Mr. West?” Edith asked.
I assured her that it was half of life, according to my notion.
“I ought to apologize for inquiring,” she said. “It is not a question that we ask one another nowadays; but I have read that in your day, even among the cultured class, there were some who did not care for music.”
“You must remember, in excuse,” I said, “that we had some rather absurd kinds of music.”
“Yes,” she said, “I know that; I am afraid I should not have fancied it all myself. Would you like to hear some of ours now, Mr. West?”
“Nothing would delight me so much as to listen to you,” I said.
“To me!” she exclaimed, laughing. “Did you think I was going to play or sing to you?”
“I hoped so, certainly,” I replied.
Seeing that I was a little abashed, she subdued her merriment and explained. “Of course, we all sing nowadays as a matter of course in the training of the voice, and some learn to play instruments for their private amusement; but the professional music is so much grander and more perfect than any performance of ours, and so easily commanded when we wish to hear it, that we don’t think of calling our singing or playing music at all. All the really fine singers and players are in the musical service, and the rest of us hold our peace for the main part. But would you really like to hear some music?”
I assured her once more that I would.
“Come, then, into the music room,” she said, and I followed her into an apartment finished, without hangings, in wood, with a floor of polished wood. I was prepared for new devices in musical instruments, but I saw nothing in the room which by any stretch of imagination could be conceived as such. It was evident that my puzzled appearance was affording intense amusement to Edith.
“Please look at today’s music,” she said, handing me a card, “and tell me what you would prefer. It is now five o’clock, you will remember.”
The card bore the date “September 12, 2000,” and contained the longest programme of music I had ever seen. It was as various as it was long, including a most extraordinary range of vocal and instrumental solos, duets, quartettes, and various orchestral combinations. I remained bewildered by the prodigious list until Edith’s pink fingertip indicated a particular section of it, where several selections were bracketed, with the words “5 p.m.” against them; then I observed that this prodigious programme was an all-day one, divided into twenty-four sections answering to the hours. There were but a few pieces of music in the “5 p.m.” section, and I indicated an organ piece as my preference.
“I am so glad you like the organ,” said she. “I think there is scarcely any music that suits my mood oftener.”
She made me sit down comfortably, and, crossing the room, so far as I could see, merely touched one or two screws, and at once the room was filled with the music of a grand organ anthem; filled, not flooded, for, by some means, the volume of melody had been perfectly graduated to the size of the apartment. I listened, scarcely breathing, to the close. Such music, so perfectly rendered, I had never expected to hear.
“Grand!” I cried, as the last great wave of sound broke and ebbed away into silence. “Bach must be at the keys of that organ; but where is the organ?”
“Wait
