The Diothas, or, A Far Look Ahead/Chapter 31
We were but a few miles on our way, when the incident before referred to took place. This naturally led the conversation to my sister Maud, for whom I once had performed a similar service. The theme thus started proved of such interest, that we found ourselves near our destination almost before we were aware.
"It is difficult for me to conceive of any one voluntarily leading such a life as that." said Reva, after obtaining from me a detailed account of the education, amusements, and occupations of a fashionable young lady of the nineteenth century. "To live in enforced idleness during the intervals between a round of exciting pleasures, with no stated occupation but that of devising and putting on a costume that must have rendered life a burden, seems to me a strange perversion of gifts and opportunities. As you tell of it, it sounds like an elaborate device for stunting by disuse every power of mind and body."
She kindled, however, with admiration towards those noble women of whom I told her, who putting aside ease and pleasure, disregarding even social prejudice, devoted
their lives to lessening, as far as lay in their power, the frightful mass of misery by which they found themselves surrounded.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "there were some things in which that distant past excelled the present. There is no longer opportunity for heroism. There are no longer islands, or even continents, for men to discover; nor for women are there fields of heroic labor."
"Would you, then, have ignorance and evil exist, in order to enjoy the privilege of applying a remedy?"
"Now you are laughing at me, and I deserve it. But, to return to what we were talking of before, how did your sister Maud,—do I pronounce it correctly?—how did she bear such a life as you are describing? Did it not break her health and spirits?"
"On the contrary," was my prompt reply, "she and Edith"—
"Edith!" exclaimed Reva, in a tone of evident surprise and interest. Is that a name,—a girl's name?"
"Yes, of course it is a girl's name; but where"—At this moment it flashed upon me, that, in my surprise, I had uttered the name just before Hulmar joined us.
Reva, seeing me hesitate, replied to my uncompleted interrogation by saying, that at the moment when I seemed to discover in her some resemblance, unexpected and perhaps startling, I had uttered what she took for the exclamation Iditha! meaning, It is she!
"I had no opportunity then of inquiring after the meaning of the exclamation," she continued; "but, for a special reason, I did intend to inquire."
"There are, indeed, special reasons why you should know all about Edith Alston," I replied. "But I must defer the matter for the moment, since we are now almost at the door."
We found the venerable lady to whom our visit was due seated on the southern veranda. This not only commanded a magnificent view of the Hudson, but also received the full benefit of the evening breeze, that began to sweep up the river fresh from the broad Atlantic. The sun, too, no longer shone on this side of the house, but was distinctly verging toward the hills whose blue outline was visible on the north-western horizon. Our visit, therefore, could not be prolonged.
The old lady received us very kindly, but made no allusion in Reva's presence to the new relation in which we stood. But, Reva being sent out with her cousin Semna to view some floral novelty in the garden, I became the recipient of some sensible and kindly meant advice, not unlike that which I had received from Hulmar.
"Now," said she, as the girls returned, it is time for you two to be on the way. It is much more pleasant, besides, to be on the road on such a day as this than to be sitting still anywhere."
This was very true. In spite of breeze and shade, the heat had grown oppressive. But when speeding over the clear stretches of the road at a rate equalling that of the Mary Powell at her best, and rarely descending below ten miles an hour, the sensation was one of bracing and exhilarating coolness.
"We found time, Ziemna and I, to take a better look than before at your sister's portrait," began Reva, soon after we were on the road. Ziemna, it may be remarked, is a familiar dimiuntive for Semna, formed, as such words regularly are in that tongue, not by means of a suffix, but by an internal change in the root.
"Well, what do you think of Maud,—or Madene, if you prefer that name?"
"We both think her very beautiful. But you would never imagine what a strange fancy occurred to Ziemna."
"May I know?"
"You will think it absurd. She was looking at Madene's portrait, comparing it with yours in the lizeo, when the strange impression came to her, that, though there is a greater resemblance in feature between you and your sister, yet the expression in that portrait, a duplicate of the set taken by Ialma, strongly reminds her of fleeting shades of expression she has seen pass over my face at times. It lasts but an instant, she says, but none the less it is there."
"There would be nothing strange in that, if true," said I lightly, "seeing that we come of the same stock. But I know whom you resemble in many ways, not vaguely and at odd moments, but distinctly and always. Not only do you resemble that person, Reva, but, strange as it may sound, I am firmly convinced that you are that person."
"But how can I possibly be two different persons at one and the same time?" objected Reva, regarding me with an air of mingled doubt and perplexity.
"No, not two different persons at one and the same time," was my reply, "but one and the same person at widely separated epochs. You believe in the doctrine of the varana?" The varana was the name by which they designated what, among us, is referred to as the metempsychosis.
"I do," she replied, beginning to see whither my argument tended.
"According to that doctrine, as I understand it, of the many millions of souls inhabiting human bodies at the period of which I have recollection, are not the immense majority still undergoing probation on this earth?"
"Except the comparatively few, that, having attained the ordained standard of moral perfection, have passed to a higher sphere of existence," was the reply, gravely, almost reluctantly, given. The problem of human existence was to these people a real and serious, though not a terrible, question, one to be discussed, if at all, in a spirit of earnest reverence. The off-hand flippancy with which some among us will attack and settle the most important of questions would have seemed to Reva and her contemporaries perhaps more shocking than the grotesque antics of the fetich-worshipper, to the same extent that shallow pretension is more displeasing than earnest ignorance.
"Does it, then, seem at all improbable," said I, "that a spirit endowed, for some exceptional reason, with the power of recalling a former state of existence, should also have the power of recognizing others with whom it had then been brought into contact?"
"I feel the force of your argument," replied Reva, "the more so because we believe, that, as the soul possesses a strong informing power upon the body with which it is clothed, it is natural to suppose that the bodies successively inhabited by the same soul should have a certain similitude. But here a difficulty presents itself."
"What is that difficulty?"
"Supposing I am really a person formerly known to you, why did it take almost a week for you to recognize me as that person?"
"You have just suggested the explanation yourself," exclaimed I triumphantly. "As the soul progresses and changes in the course of its long probation, so must the body it informs change also. Supposing you had not seen Olav during the past ten years, do you think you would at once recognize him, especially if presenting himself amid unexpected surroundings?"
"I suppose not," replied she, after a pause. "I remember his once returning so altered, after an absence of a single year, that I scarcely recognized him."
"What, then, is your conclusion?" I inquired.
The reply was so long in coming, that I almost thought she had not heard the question. She appeared so absorbed in thought, however, that I forbore to interrupt her revery.
"I feel compelled to believe that it is as you say," was the reply,—"that we have met in some distant past. This I believe, not only for the reasons you have advanced, but also for others personal to myself. Before you ask me, however, what these reasons are, let me know a little about my former self. Before fully acknowledging the connection," continued she, dismissing with a merry smile the gravity produced by our late discourse, I would fain see whether it is one to be proud of, or the reverse."
Edith Alston." exclaimed I, with perhaps unnecessary warmth, was the noblest, as she was the fairest, of her sex! I always thought so, now I know it."
"Pray explain how mere opinion became knowledge," said Reva, with an assumption of mock gravity that strangely reminded me of her former self. It may have been this that prompted me to answer as I did.
"From the fact that she has changed so little, I naturally infer there was little to change for the better."
"That certainly sounds conclusive," assented Reva in the same tone. "I shall be proud to form the acquaintauce of such a paragon. But," added she, with a mischievous light in her eye that warned me I was about to be repaid in some way for the error I had committed, "if I remember rightly what you said, your own personal appearance is but slightly altered from then: from that may we justly infer that you also"—
"You may draw what inference you please," said I, laughing. But one thing I have no need to infer, but know for certain, is, that Reva Diotha and Edith Alston agree remarkably in one characteristic at least."
"What you say merely tantalizes my impatience to hear more of this Edith," said Reva, evidently enjoying her little skirmish. But would there be time? We shall soon be in sight of the house."
"No: the time is too short. Besides, I think it would be better for me to tell this story to you and your father together. Meantime, it would perhaps be as well not to refer to the matter."
Had this been premeditated by me, it would have been a most subtle stroke of strategy. It would have been impossible to devise more effectual means of causing her mind to dwell upon me. Without intending it, I had thus established a secret between me and her,—a secret that, from its very nature, would powerfully exercise her imagination.
A few minutes later we arrived at the porch. Though all, probably, must have observed our coming, Ialma alone came forth to meet us at the door. After saluting Reva with even more than her usual sisterly tenderness, she laughingly inquired, turning her round so as to obtain a fair view of what she referred to,—
"Who can have arranged your hair in this fashion? Your father?—Well, we have about time to"—
The rest was lost to my ears as they entered the house, and I went round to house my curricle. Of the events of the evening I have but a confused recollection. Reva came down with her hair artistically braided by the deft fingers of Ialma, and looking, if possible, more lovely than ever. No allusion was made to what, no doubt, was the subject uppermost in the mind of each; but all seemed pleased and happy, Even Reva, after an interval during which she seemed unable entirely to rid herself of the maidenly self-consciousness consequent on the novelty of her position, soon caught the general tone, and joined in the conversation with her usual vivacity.
After dinner she herself challenged me to a game of chess; compassionating, no doubt, my evident inability to so collect my thoughts as to give coherent replies to the most ordinary questions. In the first game I was ignominiously beaten. Reva laughed.
"You see?" said she, pointing to the chessboard.
"I understand the reproof," said I penitently.
"You made me promise to become your monitress in behavior; and I am afraid," said she, shaking her beautiful head, "the office will be no sinecure."
"But thoughts will wander at times," pleaded I in defence."
"Man should be master of his mind," responded she, quoting, with a charming assumption of gravity, a celebrated poet of the sixty-third century. "That, however, is but a minor offence. But you really ought not to stare so at me, as you did at dinner, and as you have been doing now, instead of studying the board."
"But what induced Ialma to do up your hair in that distracting way?" said I, assuming as fraternal an air as possible. "The effect is very good, but I cannot help. trying to make out how it is produced. Could I once be satisfied on that point"—
The absurdity of this plea tickled Reva's keen sense of humor. She laughed, and, entering into the spirit of the thing, said,—
"If that will suffice to effect a cure, you may now study the effect, as you call it, once for all."
With these words, she turned round so as to present to view the back of her head, then, at my request, presented her profile. In this last position I kept her as long as I dared, apparently surveying with critical eye the artistically arranged locks, but likewise taking in the details of the Artemis-like head, the delicately outlined nose, the proud lips and chin.
"Well, will you now be able to devote your whole attention to the game?" asked she, as she turned toward me a countenance as captivating to the heart in its front view as the goddess-like profile was satisfying to the artistic taste.
"I think the safest way would be if you could restore your locks to their usual fashion. I feel sure I could then play a good game." This I said as calmly and deliberately as if nothing more were in question than altering the position of a picture or statuette. I was also fully aware, that, in thus affording her an excuse for relieving her locks from a bondage I suspected to be irksome, I should be really doing her a great pleasure. The correctness of my surmise was proved by the slight demur with which she acceded to a demand apparently so unreasonable.
I watched her,—it seemed a physical impossibility, indeed, for me to keep my eyes from following her,—I watched her lean over Ialma, who sat at the other end of the apartment, and whisper some inquiry or request. Ialma's countenance at first expressed genuine concern, but brightened up immediately after some explanation had been given. With some laughing remark, she rose, and followed Reva. During their short absence I had time to reflect on the course it behooved me to pursue. This next game I must win, if possible, or perhaps lose ground not easy to recover.
When, therefore, Reva returned, I sat down before my bewitching antagonist, as wary and collected, as resolved on victory by any fair means, as ever I had before a veteran of the Philidor. The move was mine. I was able, therefore, to avail myself of an opening long disused, but abounding with pitfalls for the unwary. In spite of a spirited, even brilliant, defence on Reva's part, I was in position at the twenty-third move to announce a forced mate in two more moves.
"I see plainly you are my master in chess," was her frank acknowledgment of defeat. We had no more chess that evening, as music was now proposed. In subsequent games I still maintained a decided superiority, thought Reva occasionally gained a fairly won victory: for I made it a principle to grant no favors; nor would it, indeed, have been safe so to do, and avoid serious offence.