The Diothas, or, A Far Look Ahead/Chapter 29
Though I had slept soundly enough during the latter part of the night, I descended to the workshop pale and spiritless; for the morning light had not shown my prospects in any brighter hues. Ialma, who had returned before breakfast, attributing my evident depression to a wrong cause, strove to cheer me by her lively remarks. She even went so far as, after breakfast, to seek out and present to me a sprig of eglantine from the garden.
I was waiting at the door with my curricle, while Utis went up-stairs for the promised letter. The significance of the symbol with which the kind-hearted girl had presented me was encouraging enough. In the flower-language of the period, it stood for "Faint heart never won."
"Reva has told me of your wonderful discoveries of yesterday," said she. "I have strongly encouraged her in the idea of making that strange plant the subject of her lecture. With the aid of the notes you can give her on its history, it ought to be the most interesting lecture of the season. Perhaps, even, it might attain the honor of phonographic repetition elsewhere.
"Reva is ambitious," she continued, looking at me archly: "all Diothas are, they say. If she attains to such a distinction through you, she will not be ungrateful."
At this moment Utis made his appearance with the letter. On seeing this, Ialma begged me to wait a moment; as she, too, had something to send.
"These are the last views Olav sent. I forgot to take them over last night. Perhaps you may see her before she leaves, as she does not leave quite so early this morning. I know she will be pleased to have the views to take with her."
These directions she delivered with the most innocent air in the world; imagining, no doubt, that no daughter of Eve had ever been so profound a diplomatist. Happening, however, to catch the slight smile on the face of Utis and Ulmene, who stood by, looking on, she blushed slightly, and waved her hand in dismissal. Utis, too, giving a nod of encouragement, I started off in better spirits than I should have thought possible an hour before.
The rapid motion contributed still further to raise my spirits. Never before had I made such speed; yet Reva had already left the house, so that I met her a few yards from the entrance to the narrow road leading to their house.
She would, perhaps, have contented herself with giving, in passing, the customary gesture of courteous recognition, but that I planted myself full in her path. I was resolved on a few more words, perhaps the last. For, should her father take the view of matters that Utis evidently feared, nothing, I felt sure, would induce her to act contrary to his wishes, even if her heart were strongly enlisted in the matter. Yet I had, thus far, no reason to hope that I had excited more than a passing interest.
Finding her way thus blocked, not displeased, perhaps, at the excuse thus offered, she stopped her curricle, and inquired whether I had brought any message. I produced the excuse with which the kindly forethought of Ialma had provided me. Reva turned the leaves of the album somewhat absently, as I thought. Perhaps she was conscious of the intentness of my gaze; for I gazed as one that looks his last upon what he scarcely hopes to see again, except in memory.
"You look pale," she said hesitatingly, as she returned the album. "I hope we did not overwork you yesterday."
As she said this, with a touch of shyness quite new in her manner, and in a tone that showed real concern, with despair I thought her more adorable, though, alas! more inaccessible, than ever. It must have been some such feeling that made me reckless. I cannot otherwise account for the audacity of my reply.
"For what ails me, this has been recommended as a remedy," said I, producing the sprig of eglantine, and holding it up to her view.
"That!" she exclaimed, in evident surprise. "Who recommended that as a remedy? and for"—She did not complete the question. Some sudden idea seemed to strike her: she checked herself, colored slightly, and murmuring, "I must be going," began to put her vehicle in motion. But not thus was she to escape.
"Does any of this plant grow in your garden?" I inquired, walking beside the curricle.
"Perhaps it might be found by seeking," she replied demurely, having by this recovered herself.
"If I am not able to find it, would you perhaps"—
"In my opinion you are abundantly able to help yourself in that matter," said she; and, with this Parthian shot, off she darted down the road, leaving me in doubt whether I had acted prudently in putting that last question.
Hulmar received me with such evident gratification, that, for a moment, I thought of opening the question then and there. But I could not face the possibility of a failure that would probably necessitate my departure without again seeing Reva. It would be early enough in the evening to learn my fate. Meanwhile I could once more, at least, enjoy the privilege of her society. Another important reason for delay occurred to me. I must afford Hulmar another opportunity of discovering my capacity for mental labor, a matter that might prove of decisive importance when the critical moment arrived.
All that morning, accordingly, I worked as I never had worked before. Our method of working was somewhat as follows: with a recording phonograph before me, I translated, aloud, passages from such authors as had a bearing on the subject in hand. Meanwhile Hulmar listened attentively, and, if any thing in my version seemed obscure, signalled me to stop till the matter was cleared up to his satisfaction.
This somewhat exhausting labor was varied by frequent diversions to lighter topics, in discussions upon the manners and customs of the nineteenth century. Had my auditor been intending to write an historical novel, he could not have been more minute in his inquiries. More than once I glided insensibly into the character of one relating what he has seen, rather than merely repeating what he has read. At this Hulmar manifested no surprise; attributing it, as I supposed, to the influence of a vivid imagination.
"Yes, we have done a good morning's work," said Hulmar, in reply to Reva's inquiry, as we sat at table in the middle of the day. "So well, indeed," he continued, "have we employed our time, that, should I now, by some unforeseen mischance, be deprived of Ismar's further assistance, I could manage to make shift without. The most important points are now in my possession: the rest are matters of detail."
It may be imagined with what feelings I listened to this announcement. What followed, however, was more encouraging.
"Yet I should sorely grudge the labor involved in these details," he went on, "if left to my own resources. With Ismar I can accomplish in a pleasant morning's work what without him would take months of drudgery to accomplish."
Reva seemed so pleased at her father's evident satisfaction, expressed, not in words, but by her whole demeanor, so much gratitude for the zest I was imparting to his life, that I felt amply repaid for the labors of the morning. It was with cheerfulness, therefore, that I followed him to the study, willing to earn her approbation by even greater exertions.
"I am not so utterly unreasonable as to impose further on your kindness to-day," said Hulmar with a smile, on seeing that I had followed him. "We have done quite enough for one day. We may now fairly allow ourselves some relaxation. Did you ever read the remarkable history of Metis Telleth?"
I was obliged to acknowledge that I had never so much as heard of the name before. This was not so surprising when it is stated that the said Metis did not live till about the middle of the fifty-fourth century. Yet, for reasons that will presently appear, there were few books so generally known, or that had excited so much controversy.
"I thought not," said Hulmar, continuing to examine the backs of the numerous volumes on his shelves.
"That is why I have come here to seek a small volume that I have no doubt would prove of great interest to you. It is, however, a favorite of Reva's; and I may have to look for it among her books."
At this moment a call to the telephone sounded. After a brief conversation with the sender of the call, Hulmar announced to me that he would be detained for a short time, but would presently follow me to the garden. I may here mention, that the universal diffusion of telephonic communication was not an altogether unmixed advantage, especially to men of mark in any department of intellectual activity. A question could be answered with greater facility by telephone than by letter, it is true, but must be attended to at once, and might come at any moment.
Leaving Hulmar in conversation with his correspondent, I went in search of Reva. I found her in the garden, standing before her pet plant, absorbed, apparently, in a deep revery. From the slight, though almost imperceptible, start she gave upon becoming aware that I was standing beside her, I was vain enough to imagine that I had not been without a share in her revery, and was proportionately encouraged by the thought.
"I was thinking," she began hurriedly, then paused, as if seeking for the best expression for her thought.
"Of restoring my property?" said I, pointing to the sprig of eglantine she held in her hand.
"It was not of that I was thinking," said she, with a slightly nervous little laugh. "I am quite willing, however, to restore your property, though you seem very careless of it. I found it on the ground, where you had dropped it, or perhaps thrown it away."
"Will you not restore it now?" said I, seeing that she made no movement to hand over the little half-withered sprig, to which I now attached an importance altogether disproportioned to its intrinsic value; that is, could I but obtain it from her own hand.
"You would probably only lose it again. I will place it in water, then you will find it quite fresh when you go home."
As she stood there, the hand that held the coveted sprig behind her, looking so provokingly defiant, so bewitchingly perverse, not only did her strange likeness to some one formerly known become almost tangible, but I also experienced a feeling as unaccountable as irresistible, of having on some former occasion passed through, and with her, a precisely similiar experience.
"O Reva, Reva!" I exclaimed passionately, hurried on, as it were, by a power beyond myself. "Do you not see what it is to me to receive that symbol from your hand? It is in your hands to make me very happy or very miserable."
A something in my tone seemed to affect her strangely. She looked into my eyes with a sort of startled wonder, then, looking down with maiden shyness, said in a low voice, while hesitatingly, almost reluctantly, she held toward me that for which I had so earnestly pleaded,—
"You know, Ismar, that I would not willingly make you unhappy,—for so trifling a matter at least," she added, as if fearing she had said too much.
The tone in which she uttered these words, the action that accompanied them, the expression, revealed to me, as in a flash, the solution of what had been to me hitherto an insoluble problem. Now I knew to whom she bore so subtle a resemblance in voice, in feature, in manner. Now the wonder was, that I could remain so long blind to so obvious a fact. In my intense astonishment, I uttered a name that was not that of Reva.
What further might have passed, it is impossible to say; for at this moment Hulmar made his appearance. He carried in his hand a small volume. From the style of binding, I knew that it belonged to a lady's library; for there was a distinct style of binding affected by the fair sex, who indulged in this matter, as in others, their characteristic love of the beautiful.
"I have found the book," said he, as he drew near.
"If you had told me, I could have saved you a search," said Reva, evidently relieved by the advent of a third to break up an interview that threatened to become embarrassing. "It has been among my books for nearly a year."
"We had some conversation this morning in regard to the systems of philosophy current in the nineteenth century," said Hulmar, after we had seated ourselves in the arbor. "I omitted to inquire, however, as to the prevalent opinion as to the doctrine of the metempsychosis."
I was obliged to avow, that I had not given any special attention to the subject.
"Do you think the doctrine unreasonable?" inquired Hulmar further, after some slight discussion of the matter.
"By no means," was my reply. "Could it be established, it would go far to clear up many of the most perplexing difficulties that confront us in attempting to solve the problem of human existence. But, unfortunately, it is not supported by a fragment of evidence."
"Such is the prevailing opinion even now," said Hulmar. "In both great divisions of religions thought, the doctrine of which we are speaking is left an open question. But by no means a small number hold to the belief, that each human soul inhabits in succession a series of bodies, in each going through a certain stage of the education by which it is fitted for a higher state of existence. We who hold this doctrine do so, not only on account of its intrinsic reasonableness, but also because we are of opinion, that, though generally hidden from our eyes, a dim perception of pre-existence is at times present to every soul. What is your experience in that respect?" said he, addressing me.
"I am as convinced of the fact as I am of my own existence!" I exclaimed, recalling vividly my late experience; while Reva's cheek, too, grew pale, as if with a solemn recollection.
"But there is yet stronger and more direct evidence than that," continued Hulmar. "In this book are collected instances of people whose minds, for some unexplained reason, retained more or less complete recollection of their experiences during some previous period of existence, from the time of Pythagoras down. The most remarkable of these cases is that of Metis Telleth, from which I purpose reading a few extracts."
"But, surely, Ismar must be familiar with the story of Metis," objected Reva.
Upon my assurance that I had not even heard the name of Metis till a few minutes before, she regarded me with eyes of wonder and doubt, but made no further objection. Hulmar then began to read to us the account of a case in which, to my ever-increasing surprise, I recognized the details of an experience resembling mine in many respects. Reva listened with the rapt attention awakened by her gradually dawning perception of her father's drift. She did not once raise her eyes from the ground; so that I was unable to judge of the effect on her of this strange story, and its probable application to myself.
"What do you think of that case?" inquired Hulmar, on closing the book.
"It might, with a few changes, pass for an account of my own," was my instant reply. The time had arrived for an explanation, and it was with unspeakable relief that I saw the way thus rendered plain.
I may have felt doubts since; hut, at the moment, I really believed that Hulmar had hit upon the true explanation of my extraordinary experiences. It explained every thing so plausibly, and in a manner so much more soothing to my self-love than that suggested by Utis, which amounted, in fact, to a quasi acknowledgment of monomania, if not mild lunacy.
Hulmar seemed not in the least surprised by my acknowledgment of the resemblance of my case to that of Metis. He merely nodded with a satisfied expression, that seemed to say, "Exactly as I expected." Reva, on the other hand, regarded me with a sort of awed silence. The idea was too strange to become at once familiar.
"As early as yesterday morning," said Hulmar, "a remark of yours first suggested to me the startling idea, that yours is one of those extraordinary experiences like that of Metis. Your wonderfully accurate acquaintance with the life and thought of so distant an age, a knowledge that did not, however, seem to come down beyond a certain date; your comparative want of knowledge of the present age,—all tended to the same conclusion.
"Yours is a strange, and, I may say, enviable experience," he continued, regarding me with something of the same awe that I had remarked in the countenance of Reva. "You enjoy the rare privilege,—so rare, indeed, that the reality of its occurrence has been generally doubted,—the privilege of being able to compare, by personal experience, the condition of our race at widely separated periods of time. How much would I give to enjoy the same privilege! Yet you may feel assured, that I fully appreciate the privilege, inferior only to yours,—that of enjoying the society and conversation of such a one."
As he uttered these words with an earnest enthusiasm, that showed how thoroughly convinced was the speaker of the reality of what he referred to, I began to appreciale how greatly the situation was changed to my advantage from what I had feared in the morning. Far from having to urge my suit as a suspected lunatic, I saw myself regarded with an interest that bordered on awe. If I should be held in the same esteem as my prototype, Metis, my position would leave little to be desired. Reva said nothing, but I could see that her father's conviction was hers also.
"Though my story is in many ways similar to that of Metis," I began, by way of preface to the account I saw was expected of me; yet, in one important respect, my experience is widely different from his."
"In what way?" inquired Hulmar, whose interest in what I was about to say was scarcely veiled by the calm courtesy of his manner.
"The reminiscences of Metis began at a comparatively early age, and only by slow degrees attained the consistency of a connected history. They never obscured his recollection of his early life among the generation to whom he related his wonderful story. My knowledge of this present age of the world, on the other hand, seems to date from only a few days back."
I then went on to give a brief account of my experiences during the preceding week,—briefer, that is to say, than the account contained in these pages, yet omitting nothing essential. I was listened to with a rapt attention that showed the intense interest of my hearers. In Reva's beautiful eyes. upraised from where she sat on a low sent beside her father, I could read the mutations of curiosity, wonder, and sympathy, as I advanced in my narrative.
"I have explained the views of Utis on this subject," I ended. "In this letter you will find these views set out at greater length."
Hulmar soon became absorbed in the perusal of the letter I had so shrunk from presenting that morning, but which I now gladly presented as an appendix to my story. During the reading, which occupied some time, as the communication was by no means brief, Reva began,—
"This is wonderful,—far more so than the story of Metis."
"Is that story specially interesting to you?" I inquired.
"How could any one fail to be interested?" replied Reva. How often, seated under this very tree, have I mused over that story, and wished"—
"Well?" said I, seeing that she hesitated.
"It was from no idle curiosity; but I did earnestly wish sometimes for the privilege of being allowed, even for a single hour, to put such questions as I pleased in regard to that distant past."
"As far as my knowledge extends," said I earnestly, that wish shall be gratified, not for one hour only, but for as many as you can possibly wish. You will sooner weary of questioning than I of answering."
"You will not find me unreasonable," replied she, with a smile that would have repaid me for the severest toils in her service. But I will avail myself of your promise. There are so many things I would like to ask about."
By this time Reva had quite recovered from that feeling of distance, or awe, the first effect of the revelation to which she had just listened, and gradually resumed the pleasant, cousinly tone of our intercourse of the preceding day. Taking advantage of this favorable turn of affairs, I exacted a promise that my fair cousin would act as my adviser and guide amid the shoals and quicksands of the, to me, unaccustomed social etiquette of the period. The need of such guidance in my case I was able forcibly to illustrate by a reference to that little adventure of mine on the morning when I tried my new curricle. Reva, with a barely perceptible blush, assured me that the apology I offered was quite unnecessary; since, though surprised at what she regarded as an instance of the peculiar customs prevalent at the antipodes, she had perfectly understood my intention. I was about to follow up the advantageous opening thus presented, when Hulmar, replacing in the envelope the sheets of the letter, began,—
"I will let you have this to read by and by," said he to his daughter. "At present I must go to set at ease the mind of Utis in regard to this business. As for you, Ismar, you have my best wishes in regard to that other matter here referred to."