The Diothas, or, A Far Look Ahead/Chapter 25
Utis and I had scarcely descended to the workshop next morning, when a call was heard at the telephone. It was Hulmar, inquiring whether I could call on him some time that day.
"I felt sure," said Utis, smiling, that my old friend would not rest till he had extracted from you all you can tell on the subject of ancient mathematics. It was only regard for the day and place kept him from entering on the topic then and there. I sincerely hope you will be able to gratify him. It is only when immersed in his favorite pursuits that he seems to find forgetfulness, and a certain degree of happiness."
My host sighed as he uttered these words, and became absorbed for a while in a seemingly painful revery. Perhaps he was thinking of the possibility that he, too, might. have to face within a few months. Whatever it might be, he shook it off, before long, by a vigorous effort of the will.
One of the things I most admired in the moral training of these people was, their careful cultivation of the power of putting aside unnecessary anxieties. To a mind properly trained, they contended, brief reflection is sufficient for resolving on a line of action. That once decided on, all brooding over a future contingency is to be resolutely put aside equally with all unavailing regret in regard to the irrevocable past. Cheerfulness of mind, and health of body, were virtues to be cultivated as essential to the happiness of the individual and the comfort of those around him. It was difficult for me to determine whether the uniform serenity of manner so observable in all was more the result of general good health and a well-balanced physical constitution, or if the latter was not rather due to the former.
Ialma heard of my intention of setting out after breakfast with a demure smile, but made no observation. To the rest, my proceeding seemed quite natural; for, according to the prevailing social etiquette, a request from an elder to a man considerably younger was looked upon as something not to be lightly disregarded. Those days were long past when it was possible for the young to be more highly informed than their elders. Age and experience, accordingly, had resumed their natural position of superiority in respect to youthful inexperience.
In a conversation that occurred some time subsequent to that now referred to, I experienced considerable difficulty in explaining the possibility of a condition of society in which age was flouted at, and regarded as a disqualification, even for those duties in which cool-headed experience is pre-eminently desirable; and how it came about that what was, perhaps sarcastically, called "society," was ruled by those least qualified to do so, either by sense or experience.
Just before I started, Utis produced a book, from which he tore one of the printed forms it contained. This I found to be a diagram of the roads and cross-roads of the district, each being numbered, or otherwise distinguished with as much system as the streets of a city. I had, after this, frequent occasion to appreciate the enormous convenience of these diagrams. By means of one of the ingenious ink-pencils then in use, Utis lined out my road, and, after explaining the signs by which I should recognize the turnings, placed the diagram in a clip so arranged as to hold it in a position convenient for reference.
A ride of about ten miles, accomplished in a little more than half an hour, brought me to my destination. At that hour I had the roads almost to myself; most people being engaged in listening to the after-breakfast concert, the one great esthetic enjoyment of the day.
Hulmar I found sitting on the veranda amid a group of neighbors. The sound of music from within showed that I had arrived in time for the latter part of the performance, in which I, too, soon became so absorbed as to become forgetful for a time, both of the place and of the occasion of my coming.
After the music had ceased in one triumphant burst of melody that long lingered on my ear, the visitors soon took their leave. They were neighbors from the next house, whose apparatus had happened to be out of order that morning. From some words that fell from them, I understood that Reva, whom I did not see, had set out immediately after breakfast for her post of duty, it being her turn for duty that week.
My host, evidently gratified by my promptitude in acceding to his request, first fulfilled his duties as host by leading me round the garden.
"This fountain," said he, pointing to what appeared a cloud of rainbow-colored mist in the midst of the garden, "is of Reva's contrivance." While saying this, he pressed on what seemed to be a piece of rock; and the spray subsided at once, permitting approach to the basin. This was enclosed in rockwork abounding in ferns and other moisture-loving plants. A number of fish of various colors came swarming to the edge of their abode, accustomed, evidently, to be fed.
"These and her fowls are Reva's live pets," said he.
"But probably she loves her flowers still more. Over here, however, is the pride of her garden, a unique plant, to which none of even our experienced botanists has been able to give a name."
Here we came to a standstill before—I hesitate to tell it—a not exceedingly large, yet thriving specimen of Carduus Arvensis, or Canada Thistle. The panicles of buds, already showing purplish at the tips, gave promise of a numerous progeny of this farmer's pest, to which they have given the significant epithet of "cursed."
"Is this the plant you mean?" I inquired, hardly able to believe my eyes.
"You seem to recognize it. Yes, this is the plant."
"It is merely a—" Here I was nonplussed, for I was unable to recall any name for it in the language of the period. "It is merely a weed, at one time greatly detested, and far from uncommon."
"In Maoria, you mean. It seems to be utterly unknown on this continent."
"It was known only too well in these regions at one time," was my reply. I then proceeded to give some account of its nature, warning him of the difficulty of extirpating it if once it gained a footing.
"It would not have much chance against our present methods of cultivation," said Hulmar, who had listened with deep interest to what I said. "It will be as well, however, to take measures of precaution."
As we walked toward the house, he told how Reva, to whom all the native plants were known, had remarked the strange plant growing in a corner of the garden. The only probable explanation he could frame to account for its presence there was this. The year before, a glass vessel that seemed to contain coin, or similar objects, had been brought for his inspection. In the vessel, which they were obliged to saw in two in order to get at the coins, was a quantity of decayed vegetable matter, which was thrown into that corner of the garden.
On reaching the library, he showed me one of the coins, the date of which, as well as I could make it out, was A.D. 2758. A talk on the gradual change that had supervened in the forms of the numerical characters naturally led to the subject of early mathematics.
On that subject I happened to be fairly informed. I had once accepted the task of writing a review of a German history of mathematics. With the aid of "Montucla," and similar works, I succeeded in producing what my sister Maud regarded as the most brilliant of modern essays. For in it I had succeeded in contrasting my own exceeding knowledge of the subject with the Teuton's deplorable ignorance of what he had studied only as many years, probably, as I had days. Yet I had been conscientious compared with some reviewers. I had really endeavored to acquire some slight knowledge of my subject; for this I now reaped the reward. Hulmar, full of delight at being able to obtain information on just those points hitherto most obscure to him, put question upon question. Imagine Mommsen enabled to interrogate a witness of the period of the Scipios upon the many points that prove insoluble problems to even his industry and critical acumen.
Hulmar's satisfaction was all the greater because my replies often confirmed his own shrewd surmises. On some points he showed a knowledge wonderful in its accuracy,—so accurate, indeed, that, when questioned on those points, I was obliged to say that I could not answer more exactly without access to certain books. Now, the great difficulty in the investigation of that period had been, not the absence of records, but their bewildering profusion, and the fact that they were expressed in almost unknown languages.
At once he produced a catalogue in several large volumes. One of these contained the list of the works of reference in the ancient languages—which included, it must be remembered, what are now called the modern languages—contained in the State library in Albany. On looking over this, I was able to pick out a number of works I would like to consult, and expressed my readiness to proceed at once to Albany.
"There is, of course, no need of that," said he, seemingly as much surprised at the idea of there being any necessity of going to a library, when knowing the names of the books wanted, as we should be at the notion of going to a bookseller's to read his books.
This is how the matter was arranged. Through the telephone he began a conversation with the custodian of the proper department of the library, gave the numbers of the books, and expressed a wish to have them forwarded at once.
"They ought to be here in the course of the afternoon," said he; and we resumed the discussion interrupted by the question of books. So interested were we both in the subject, that our first intimation of the rapid flight of time was the appearance of Reva. She had meantime returned, and now came to seek her father for the mid-day meal, which he loved to partake of in her society.