During the first few weeks of my tour in Mecco—Tour No. 4—Conductor Prigge kept my nose well to the grindstone. At times he made me feel like a small schoolboy, at times like a prisoner in charge of a warder. It would be tedious to detail all the incidents of my daily rounds, or to describe everything in the exact order in which it was presented to my view. So I propose to set down, as they remain in my mind, the most interesting or remarkable features of this truly remarkable city. One circumstance, however, annoys and almost distresses me. I cannot get into contact with any individual living people. I see everything as a spectacle from the outside.

As I go about, the impression of orderliness, cleanliness, and even magnificence of a kind, is such as I have seldom felt in any part of the world. At times the whole city gives one the same sort of feeling that one experiences in going through a gigantic hospital, where everything is spotless and nothing is out of its place. I am even getting used to the coloured uniforms of the seven classes. In the central parts of the city green and yellow predominate; for the number of people belonging to the official class is enormous. Even apart from their actual number they are the most conspicuous, because the lower classes are at work in their factories and business houses, and are consequently seldom seen except when returning home in the evening. Occasionally I notice a few white uniforms (of the very select First Class) and occasionally, too, a crowd of officers in their brilliant scarlet uniforms. At the other end of the scale, the most common colour visible is the grey, worn by the numerous servants in the well-to-do quarters. The few servants who wear chocolate are mostly the lackeys of the very rich, and the upper servants in the large hotels.

On the day after Dr. Proser-Toady’s lecture, Conductor Prigge was more than usually “pedagogic.” I wanted to look about the streets and ask questions about many things that occurred to me at the moment, but he insisted upon pouring out detailed information about the drainage system, the postal areas, the parcels’ delivery areas, the telephone system, the market system, and so forth. What did interest me, however, was the organisation known as the Time Department, of which I had already seen something at Bridgetown.

There is, as I have said, an enormous number of public buildings in Mecco, but nobody can miss the gigantic office of the Time Department. It towers up, about seven stories high, over the surrounding buildings, and above it rises a great clock that can be seen for miles. In this central department alone, ten thousand people are employed—that is, of course, in addition to all those employed in the local offices of the Time Department in various parts of the country.

Conductor Prigge was tremendously proud of the Time Department. “Other nations,” he said, “have never thought of establishing such an institution for themselves. They have not even had the intelligence to imitate ours. We Meccanians were the first to discover both time and space: our philosophers were the first to understand time and space: we have been the first Government to organise time and space. We can tell you,” he went on, “the exact amount of time occupied by any person, or any group of persons, in doing anything. We know exactly how much time is devoted to eating and drinking, as well as the time required to produce a picture, or a piece of sculpture, or a poem, or a musical composition; or how long it takes to learn any language, or any subject of study.”

“But,” I said, “what about the time spent by all the clerks and officials employed all over the country, as well as here, in the Time Department itself; isn’t it rather extravagant? What is the object of it all?”

“Do you think,” he replied, “that we should keep up such an institution if it had not proved to be useful in the highest degree? Foreigners have such childish ideas of organisation,” he continued. “This was one of the most brilliant inventions of Prince Mechow, but it has taken thirty years to bring it to its present state of perfection. It pays for itself over and over again, in the mere economy it effects; and it has other far-reaching effects on the whole social and economic life of the nation. In the first place, in the matter of material production, in every trade and occupation it enables us to speed-up scientifically. An increase of 1½ per cent in the productiveness of the four main industries alone would more than pay all the expenses of the Time Department. We have increased productiveness all round by at least 20 per cent since the introduction of the Time Department; and although not all of this increase is due to the Time Department, we may safely reckon 5 per cent. We have done away with all the dawdlers in art, all the incompetent painters and novelists and poets. In connection with the Post Office we have been able to diminish the amount of time spent in writing useless letters by 50 per cent. Why, without the Time Department the Department for the Direction of Leisure would be helpless. In Education, how should we know the right proportion of time to be devoted to the various subjects, the right amount to recreation or amusement? And apart from economy, the aid given to the researches of the Sociological Department is simply invaluable. The efficiency of the Police Department is due in great measure to the Time Department.”

“But,” I inquired innocently, “is there no feeling of resentment on the part of the public at the somewhat inquisitorial methods of the Time Department?”

“Resentment!” he said, almost angrily. “Why should there be resentment?”

“At having to give an account of all that one does even in one’s leisure time?”

“But when everybody knows that we save millions a year by it, and when the State has decided that it is for the public benefit, and the obligation is imposed upon everybody; why should anyone raise objections?”

“Still,” I said, remembering my unfortunate experience, “you find it necessary to inflict fines in order to ensure compliance with the regulations about filling up the weekly diaries.”

“Naturally. But perhaps you overlook the educative effect of having to keep the diary. The proper keeping of the diary is almost an education in itself.” My conductor said this with such an air of finality that I thought it was not worth while to pursue the question further.

I was much amused by a conversation I had a few days ago on another subject. It was about five o’clock and I was feeling rather tired, so I proposed that we should have a meal in a restaurant, and then go to some place of amusement in the evening.

“You may return to the hotel if you are indisposed,” said Prigge, “and rest there during the evening; or you may have a meal in a restaurant and resume your tour. But until we have completed at least the first week’s tour of observation, you cannot possibly be permitted to visit any place of amusement, as you call it. Besides, such places as you probably have in mind, do not exist in Mecco. I have seen, in other countries, what are termed music halls, where a lot of so-called actors were making fools of themselves.”

“Perhaps,” I ventured to say, “you did not look at the performance from the right point of view.”

“I see! You mean that I should have regarded these childish performances as illustrating the stage of mental culture of the people. From that point of view your ‘music halls’ may be of some interest, just as the drama of foreign countries is of interest; but it is so very primitive.”

“Primitive? In what way primitive?” I asked.

“Primitive by comparison with our highly developed drama. For example, all the foreign dramas I have seen are written in the narrative form, or rather, I should say, the drama is still in the chronological stage. We have left that behind.”

“Indeed,” I said, “I am afraid I can hardly conceive of drama in any other form.”

“Exactly. You cannot understand. But our Meccanian culture is not exactly designed for the intelligence of foreigners. If you are specially interested in the subject of the drama—it is not one of my specialities, although of course I am not ignorant of the drama, no Meccanian is—I will introduce you to my friend in the Department of Public Amusement, which is a branch of the Ministry of Education and Culture. He will probably enable you in the shortest period of time—and that is always a consideration, although most foreigners are often quite oblivious of the time aspect of such matters—to understand the Meccanian drama, in so far as it is possible for a foreigner to understand it.”

I thanked him, and he made a note in his pocket-book to remind him of his promise. “Perhaps you can tell me,” I said, “how your people do amuse themselves, apart from going to the theatre; for they cannot go to the theatre every evening.”

“I notice that, like all foreigners, you are more interested in amusement than in the serious aspects of life. You will receive full information at the proper time if you will avail yourself of my offer to take you to my friend Dr. Dodderer, the Sub-Controller of Public Amusements (Section B); but I do not mind giving you a few facts such as are common knowledge among all Meccanians.”

“Well,” I said, “take your commercial travellers, who must spend a good deal of time in towns away from home. What do they do in the evenings?”

“If you were to go to the Great Meccanian Library,” he replied, “and consult the Reports of the Sociological Department for the last twenty years, you would be able to see exactly how all these persons have spent their time. But you would perhaps be surprised to find that the number of persons travelling about and staying away from home is very small. When you have studied our industrial and commercial system you will see that we require comparatively few commercial travellers. As to the way they spend their time, you must understand that in every town there are guilds of all the professions. Consequently, as every commercial traveller naturally wishes to improve his knowledge, he frequents the guild house, where he meets with other members of his profession and discusses matters of interest. If he comes from Mecco he will be welcomed, as the provincial members will be only too glad to learn anything from one who comes from the very centre of Meccanian culture. Also, he may wish to visit the local museums, or other cultural institutions. If not, he will attend either an outdoor or an indoor concert.”

“The commercial travellers of Meccania must be quite unlike the commercial travellers of all other countries if they spend their leisure in the way you have described,” I remarked. “You spoke of concerts,” I continued. “I suppose music is still the most popular form of amusement in Meccania?”

“Neither the drama nor music are, strictly speaking, mere amusements,” answered Conductor Prigge. “They may be so regarded in other countries, but not in Meccania.”

“Then what are they?” I asked.

“They form part of our general scheme of culture,” replied Prigge. “As you probably know, attendance at the theatre once a week is compulsory for all persons over eighteen. Those below eighteen attend the juvenile theatre as part of their school course in literature.”

“Attendance compulsory?” I said. “But if Meccanians are so advanced in the cultivation of the drama, why should it be necessary to enforce attendance?”

“Perhaps it is not really necessary, but I doubt whether our scheme of dramatic culture could be carried out without strict regulation. For instance, there are some plays more popular than others. People would want to see these plays in great numbers and there would not be room for them; whilst the less popular plays would not be well attended.”

“Just so,” I said, “that is what one would naturally expect; and where is the harm?”

“Our scheme provides a succession of plays throughout the year, all designed as part of our culture, and if people were at liberty to pick and choose what they would see, and what they would not see, we should have no guarantee that they would have gone through the course.”

“Would that matter,” I asked, “so long as they were amused?”

“May I repeat that the Meccanian drama is something more than amusement,” he replied testily. “You will learn more of this subject from Dr. Dodderer. We need not pursue it further.”

“Then may I ask whether attendance at concerts is compulsory also?”

“It is not compulsory, but it is strictly regulated as regards the different grades of music,” he answered.

“I should like to know how you regulate attendance at concerts,” I said; “I have never heard of it elsewhere.”

“I dare say not,” said Prigge. “Other countries are still in a very backward state as regards musical culture. In the first place, all persons below eighteen have to pass an examination in some branch of practical or theoretical music, unless they are defective in the musical sense. Then, before any adult is admitted to the first, second or third grades of concerts, he has to pass an examination in musical appreciation. That is to say, only those are admitted to concerts of the first class who hold a first-class certificate in musical appreciation, and so on with the other grades. Otherwise we should have people whose musical knowledge is very moderate listening to the best music by the best performers. By means of our system we can provide exactly the right standard of music at all public concerts. At the beginning of each season the programmes of all the concerts of the first three grades are issued. Each person enters his name for a course of concerts according to the grade of musical culture attained by him. He is informed how many concerts he may attend in the season; he then chooses which concerts he will attend, and after that there is no difficulty.”

“No,” said I, “I should think there would be no difficulty after such careful preparation. Then the open-air concerts in the beer gardens,” I said; “where do they come in?”

“Those are not regulated in the same way. We can tell from the Time Department whether any person is spending too much time at these performances, and any person who neglects to pass his examination in musical appreciation before the age of thirty is forbidden to attend such concerts—if they can be called concerts—more than once a week.”

“And is it possible to carry out such a regulation?” I asked.

“You have not studied our Time Department to much purpose if you ask such a question,” answered Prigge.

“I suppose, then,” I said, “as I have no certificate I shall not be permitted to hear any of your best music?”

“Foreigners who are Doctors of Music of any University,” replied Prigge, “are admitted by special leave of the Ministry of Culture to attend a specified number of concerts even of the first grade, and others can attend a few concerts of the third grade, likewise by special permission of the Ministry of Culture.”

I think it was on the same day that Prigge said to me, “I notice you are not wearing your spectacles.”

“I have never worn spectacles,” I said.

“But you were ordered to wear spectacles by Dr. Pincher.”

“He did prescribe them,” I said, “but I have not troubled to get them, as I do not really require them.”

Conductor Prigge looked positively aghast. “You must go at once,” he said; “you have the address. You had better pretend that there has been some delay—but no, your diary will show that you have not been to the optician. You will certainly be fined in accordance with Regulation 127 of the Instructions to Foreign Observers.”

I went accordingly, and in a few days I had the spectacles. I suppose this incident caused me to notice that nearly all Meccanians wear spectacles or eyeglasses. Some wear two pairs at once, and I have seen even three pairs worn. I felt thankful nothing wrong with my teeth had been discovered.

A day or two later I was taken by Prigge to see Dr. Dodderer. What I learnt from him was even more remarkable than what my conductor had told me, so I will not apologise for giving a fairly full account of my interview.

We were due at ten o’clock, and a whole hour had been reserved for me. As we entered his room he noted the exact time on his tablet and said, “The object of your visit is to learn something of the Meccanian drama, as part of the system of culture, and the relation of amusement to our system of culture. Very good; if you will be seated I will do my best to enlighten you.”

He was a dried-up little man, with bright black eyes and a narrow but lofty forehead. I thanked him and prepared to listen. I knew he would think me disrespectful if I did not make use of my notebook, so I prepared to make copious notes.

When he saw I was ready, he sat with his eyes shut and his hands clasped together in front of him, and proceeded to pour forth a long discourse. He began by saying that all the higher animals showed some disposition towards play; and that, in particular, the human animal was pre-eminently distinguished in this respect. Some anthropologists had argued that the persistence of the play-instinct was a proof of the essential usefulness of play, in developing both muscular and intellectual power. He himself did not adopt this view, or, at any rate, only in a modified form. He held that play was one of the most wasteful methods of nature, and that if the competition between the various races and subdivisions of the human species had been perfect, the race that could reduce play to an absolute minimum, confined perhaps to the first three years of life, would—ceteris paribus—succeed in winning the foremost place. Play was certainly the least profitable form of mental activity, and one of the problems of education was the gradual elimination of play from the scheme of national culture. It was unfortunately true that even the best system of education had to make concessions to this instinct of play, and it would take many generations before it could be reduced to a minimum. But the experiments of the Meccanian psychologists had demonstrated that the amount necessary, both in the case of children and in the case of adults, had been grossly exaggerated in the past, and was still grossly exaggerated by other nations. These experiments would have been impossible without the assistance of the Time Department, and the absence of a Time Department in other countries probably accounted for the little progress they had made in this direction.

“For example,” he continued, “other nations have almost entirely neglected the value of cultural toys. They have been content, even where they have given any thought at all to the subject, to devise toys which gave a little more opportunity for ingenuity, but their object has been mainly to amuse; they have had no clear conception of the ultimate purpose of toys in a complete cultural scheme. Now we have a carefully thought-out scheme, and although it does not come under my department, but under Section A1, it affords a good illustration of the basis of our system. All our toys are classified in fifteen stages. We began with only five stages, but the number has gradually increased, for the system necessarily becomes more complex as it becomes more perfect. Stage I. is represented by simple objects which a baby can grasp and recognise before the age of eighteen months. Stage II. is represented by balls and cubes and objects of that order. Stage III. by dolls and images. Stage IV. by objects which can be grouped so as to afford a basis for the teaching of number. Stage V. by simple mechanical toys and simple tools. Stage VI. by constructive blocks of various kinds....”

Here, I am afraid, I became confused, but I remember that Stage XIII. was represented by toys which formed an introduction to chemistry, and that the toys of Stage XIV. could only be worked by boys whose mathematical knowledge was far in advance of what I should have thought possible. He explained that visits were paid by the domestic Inspectors of Child-Life to see that the parents made proper use of the system of cultural toys. There had been great difficulty at first, but the parents were now properly instructed; and in a short time there would be no need to instruct them, as they would have grown up in familiarity with the system.

“Other experiments equally valuable have been conducted in order to discover what forms of amusement are most profitable from the cultural point of view; these include experiments designed to improve production.

“For example, in our schools for the children of the Seventh Class, we find we have to allow a considerable time for non-intellectual pursuits. It would be sheer waste to allow all this time to be given to mere amusement. Children who cannot give more than three hours a day to study, can be very usefully employed in making simple articles. We have a number of simple machines which can be worked by quite small children. You would be surprised to learn, perhaps, that goods worth a million are exported annually which are all the product of the semi-recreative work of these children. On the other hand, any boys of the Second Class who cannot profitably be kept at intellectual pursuits for more than a few hours a day, are trained to be active and bold and self-reliant in preparation for their military career.

“The same principle applies not only to children at school but to people of all ages. For example, we discovered, through our Time Department again, that thousands of men were wasting precious hours upon games such as chess. We have introduced mathematical exercises of an interesting kind as a substitute, with most beneficial results. Others were addicted to aimless walks and rambles in the country. We began by offering prizes for botanical, entomological and other specimens, and for essays upon scientific subjects. We have, in fact, almost eliminated aimless amusement from the life of our common people. In the Fifth Class, which is a highly intelligent class, we encourage the pursuit of science by promoting those who pass certain examinations, which include a thesis, to the first grade of their class, and in a few cases we are able to promote exceptionally promising young men to the Fourth Class.”

“In what way does this bear upon the drama?” I said in a pause in Dr. Dodderer’s discourse.

“I have been trying to show you the basis of our system of public amusement. With us, amusement is never an end in itself. We find a certain crude kind of interest in the drama, or shall I say in the theatre, in almost all peoples, and some of the greatest poets have utilised that interest in order to reach the minds of their hearers. The greatest poets are those who have conceded least to the mere instinct for amusement. We have followed the same principle. But we could not carry out this scheme of dramatic culture without first getting control over the theatre. Prince Mechow, with his usual insight, saw that it was useless to control and direct the Press, if he did not at the same time control and direct the Theatre. First of all he made the censorship a reality. Then he took all the most popular playwrights into the State service. Then he was able to weed out those who were incapable of entering into his purpose. Gradually all the theatres became cultural institutions of the State. All this took time, of course. Even now there are a few popular theatres where only the lower kinds of dramatic varieties are performed. Attendance at these is not compulsory.”

“I do not yet understand,” I said, “why it should be necessary to make attendance compulsory when the drama is so popular.”

“For the majority of the people,” replied Dr. Dodderer, “compulsion is quite unnecessary; but it is just those who are most in need of the culture that can be given through the medium of the drama who would be lax in their attendance. The whole subject has been investigated,” he continued, “by the aid of the Time Department, and we are satisfied that we get the best results through our present system.”

“Since your playwrights became Civil servants has there been no decline in the quality of your dramatic productions?” I asked.

“On the contrary,” replied Dr. Dodderer. “Our modern plays are on a much higher level. There are several reasons for this. In the first place, in the old days the uninstructed public were hardly fit judges of dramatic or literary excellence. They often preferred plays of little cultural value. Consequently, the men who could write really good plays often found it impossible to get them produced. Our Board of Dramatic Criticism is now able to decide the merits of all plays, and the dramatists are quite independent of the caprice of the public. Also, we can carry specialisation to a point undreamt of in former times.”

“Specialisation?” I said; “that is quite a new idea to me.”

“Naturally, there are writers who have plenty of ingenuity in devising plots, but who are lacking in literary style; others who write excellent Meccanian, both prose and verse, but who are weak in the dramatic instinct. It is, in fact, very seldom that a modern Meccanian drama is the sole work of any single author. Moreover, the drama as developed by us lends itself particularly to specialisation. For example, most of our classical plays are presented in four phases. The simplest phase comes first. The subject is presented in chronological-dramatic form, somewhat resembling the dramas of other days and other countries. Next comes the analytical phase, and after that the synthetic. The last phase or act is a complete philosophical symposium in which the whole subject is presented in its highest and most abstract form.”

“When you speak of the subject of a play, what do you mean exactly?” I asked.

“The old plays had often no real subject; they had titles, it is true, but these titles were mere names of persons, or mere names of places or incidents. What, for instance, can you make of a title such as Julius CÆsar? or The Emperor of the East? or Catherine? or The Tyrant of Genoa? or The Crime of Boniface? If you are acquainted with the development of the drama, you will know that about ninety years ago a great advance was made by means of what was then called ‘The Problem Play.’ Some of these plays had a real subject. We have gone much further, of course. Take the subjects of some of our best-known plays: Efficiency, Inefficiency, National Self-Consciousness. These are all by our Chief Dramatic-Composer Grubber. His latest play, Uric Acid, is in my opinion even better than these.”

“Uric Acid!” I exclaimed; “what an extraordinary subject!”

“It is one of a series of medical plays,” explained Dr. Dodderer, quite undisturbed. “The subject lends itself splendidly to the methods of Meccanian Art. The part played by uric acid in the life of the individual, the family, the State, treated physiologically, pathologically, sociologically, ethically and philosophically, is almost infinite in its possibilities, and Grubber has made the most of them.”

“And do the public enjoy these medical plays?”

“You appear to be obsessed, if I may say so,” replied Dr. Dodderer, “with the idea of enjoyment. You must bear in mind our standpoint, which I have already explained. But certainly the public take great interest in the medical plays. Sub-Dramatist Smellie wrote a series, Phthisis, Nephritis and Meningitis, which are almost equal to Grubber’s Uric Acid, but he fails a little in the higher aspects of the subject, and consequently his fourth acts fall short of the highest philosophical perfection. I remember reading the proofs of his first play, Gall Stones. It was excellent until he came to the philosophical phase. It reminded me of an older play produced in the transition period, some fifty years ago, called The Blind and the Deaf. It had a considerable vogue for several years, but you see from its title that the conception was not fully developed.”

“These medical plays,” I said, “are not the most typical productions of the dramatic genius of modern Meccania, I suppose?”

“In some ways they are,” replied Dr. Dodderer. “That is to say, they are almost peculiar to our country. But one of our younger playwrights has developed the subject of economics in a way almost equally unique. His Significance of Food, and his Insurance, and Distribution, are a mere introduction to his masterpiece, Value. A very slight work on Inaccuracy, which was almost a farce, first attracted the attention of the Board of Criticism. They refused to produce Inaccuracy in its original form, and he embodied it in a more mature work, Production, which was the first of his genuine economic plays.”

“I suppose, then, you have historical or at least political plays?”

“Historical plays are mostly performed in the juvenile theatres,” he said. “I have very little to do with them. They fall under Section A, and, as you know, I am the Sub-Controller of Section B,” replied Dodderer. “But,” he continued, “we have a certain number of more advanced historical plays for adults. For instance, The Evolution of Society, with its sequel, The Triumph of Meccania, are excellent historical plays. Political plays have become almost obsolete, but there are still a few produced occasionally. The Principle of Monarchy is still quite a classic in its way, and The Futility of Democracy is one of the most brilliant pieces of Meccanian satire. Obedience is another classic.”

“It seems to me a very remarkable fact that your Sixth and Seventh Classes should be able to appreciate such plays as those you have been describing,” I said, “especially in parts of the country which cannot be so far advanced as the capital.”

“I do not say that they appreciate the drama in the same degree as the more educated classes; but you must remember they have gone through a long course of training. You perhaps now appreciate our wisdom in making attendance compulsory. Without regularity in attendance we could not arrange for a proper sequence of plays. Also, I must admit that on the days when the Sixth and Seventh Classes are due to attend, we put on the less advanced plays as a rule.”

“What happens,” I asked, “to the old plays which were written, say, a hundred years ago; are they never performed?”

“Oh dear, yes,” replied Dr. Dodderer; “the performance of such plays forms a regular part of the literature course at all our Universities and Colleges. We also utilise quite a number of them in the courses of plays for the Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Classes; but the form in which they are written is so simple and childish, such a contrast to the ripe perfection of the fully developed Meccanian drama.”

“It must be a difficult matter,” I remarked, “to arrange for progressive courses of plays for so many people as you have in Mecco.”

“On the contrary, the larger the city the easier it is. Members of the Third Class and, of course, of higher classes, are considered capable of appreciating all kinds of plays. Class Four consists of four grades, and the two higher grades, all the members of which are over thirty, are likewise eligible to attend any plays. We have a very simple plan of classifying all the others. At the age of eighteen they are all at liberty to attend plays which are classed as Stage I.; then after six months any one is at liberty to apply for a certificate entitling him to attend plays in Stage II. After another year they can obtain a certificate for Stage III.; and so on. We seldom refuse an application, and in fact we rather encourage our people to advance, otherwise many people would be content to remain in Stage II., or Stage III., all their lives. Then, at the beginning of each season, we know how many to provide for in each class, and at each stage; and the greater the number of theatres the easier it is to arrange the plays accordingly.”

“What about the actors?” I asked. “In most countries the leading actors are very much sought after, and can make large fortunes. I should imagine your system does not allow of that kind of career for a successful actor.”

“All our actors,” replied Dr. Dodderer, “are trained in the Imperial Meccanian Dramatic College. The lower grades belong to the Fifth Class, the higher grades to the Fourth. The technique of acting has been brought to such perfection that the ‘star’ as he used to be called, has entirely disappeared. There is no room for him in our system. The ‘star’ was a mere product of popular enthusiasm.”

“How do you judge, then, of the popularity of any particular actor?”

“We take no account of it at all,” replied Dr. Dodderer. “Our expert Board of Dramatic Criticism determines the standing of each actor. We have, of course, expert psychologists, who are able to test the particular psychological effect both of each phase of the play and of the impression made by individual actors. Their experiments are of great value both to our dramatic managers and to the writers of plays.”

At this point Dr. Dodderer announced that the hour he had reserved for me was at an end.