The Diothas, or, A Far Look Ahead/Chapter 37
How little are we able to foresee the ultimate result of apparently trifling actions! A pebble, a twig, may decide whether a given rain-drop shall reach the ocean through the waters of the Mississippi or of the Oregon. A little sketch had led to my banishment from Reva: an acquaintance, made in the most casual way, led to—Well, that will all come in due time.
Among other pleasant acquaintances made at the house of the scientist already adverted to, was that of an eminent authority on genealogy. A genealogist in that period, it must be well understood, was no blind groper amid the scanty records of a misty past, no framer, to order, of well-paid-for pedigrees. Genealogy was a science. Just as, among us, a scientific botanist can assign a place and name to each individual of the hundreds of thousands of species of plants on the face of the earth; so a genealogist, given the few data that each person was supposed to carry in memory, could assign to that person his exact place in the great family tree of the race.
Each family, at this time, could trace back its descent from about the middle of the third chiliad; that is, for about sixty centuries. Some could go a few centuries farther back, but none, with any certainty, beyond the beginning of the second chiliad. This chiliad was regarded as the ultima Thule of accurate research, a region enveloped in the misleading mists of uncertainty, and beset with the reefs and quicksands of genealogical myth.
Deuro Frilaz was one of those adventurous spirits that sometimes carried research into these misty centuries. Through him I became acquainted with the history of the Diothas, and the difficulty of tracing the line for more than two generations beyond the famous Esna. This was largely owing to the change of name in the female line at every generation before that epoch. I insensibly caught some of my informant's enthusiasm. Guided by his hints as to the proper line of research, I entered upon an investigation for which I possessed peculiar advantages. Favored by a lucky accident, I was so fortunate as to light upon a clew that, carefully followed up, with the aid of Deuro, enabled me to carry back the line of Diotha for nearly two centuries more.
Deuro was delighted. What was far more precious to me, however, was the proud delight expressed by Reva at my success in the solution of a problem that had baffled the zeal and acuteness of so many before me. After giving me an account of a gathering of all the Diothas of the neighborhood at their house, to bear read the phonographic transcript of Deuro's report, she went on to say,—
"Ulmene, Ialma, and I, by the vote of all present,
were appointed a committee to convey to you the thanks of all Diothas for what you have done. Many other things were said, Ismar, that made me both proud and happy."
Thinking Reva was alone, I hereupon sportively suggested how much more agreeable, even, it would be to hear such words of commendation from the lips of the committee in propriis personis instead of from the lips of the telephone. I also expressed my readiness to betake myself to any appointed place that would suit the convenience of said committee. I now first became aware, by a sound of soft laughter and some scattered words that reached my car, that I was in the telephone presence, not of Reva alone, but of the whole committee. It was Ialma communicated the result of the consultation, in a voice slightly tremulous with amusement:—
"This committee is of opinion, that, though unusual, your request should receive due consideration. Extraordinary merits deserve extraordinary rewards."
Ulmene next spoke:—
"Reva and I cannot make out what plan Ialma has in her head. It may amount to nothing. I am frequently obliged to hold up Reva to her as a pattern of staidness."
After encouragement like this, it may be supposed that such sweetly rewarded researches were prosecuted with renewed ardor. At Hulmar's suggestion, indeed, I now devoted my whole time to the line of research that had proved so successful. After unsatisfactory progress during a few days, I again struck the true lead. Henceforward, day after day, I was able to report to Reva the discovery of another link in the long line of descent from our times: day after day I was hastening toward the destined end.
A few days after Olav Edial had passed through Salu, on his way to home and happiness, I had advanced so far in my research as to trace the descent of Esna Diotha from the wife of a certain Stewart Estai. The maiden name of the wife was, however, so blurred in the time-eaten record, as to be entirely illegible. Yet that was the important name, the female line alone being the object of my research. As the marriage had taken place at Nuiore, I had no doubt of being able to find a notice of it in some of the daily papers of that city. The lateness of the hour obliged me, however, to defer till the following day a search that might prove long and tedious.
Scarcely had the doors of the institution been opened next morning, when I was on hand, eager to prosecute my search. With hands trembling with anxiety, I placed in the magnifying apparatus the photographic reduction of the files of "The New-York Quidnunc" for that year. At such speed as I required. the magnified copy sped over the screen, the letters enlarged to a size that admitted of their being read at a distance of several yards.
Ah! here at last is the required date. Let us move more slowly, till we reach the heading "Marriages."
Even before I stop the machine, I catch the name Utis. But what is that other name? Can it be possible? Excepting the names, the following is an exact copy of what net my astonished eyes:—
"ESTAI—THIUSEN.—At St. Dunstan's Church, Feb. 9, 1910, by the Rev. Estne Quidam, Stewart Estai to Edith Reva, youngest daughter of Ismar Thiusen."
I was strongly agitated. Could it be possible that—But no. Ismar Thiusen was no uncommon name. In order fully to appreciate my surprise and incredulity, the reader must understand that Hulmar and I had accepted, as the most plausible explanation of the fact that my remembrances of that former existence ended so abruptly, the theory that that former life had ceased then and there, cut off by some sudden accident. But here was I confronted by evidence that seemed to show that I had lived for a quarter of a century, at least, after the date of my supposed decease. If this were indeed the case, my marriage had most probably taken place in this same church, for reasons well known to me. As for the date, the marriage of this youngest daughter afforded room for a fair guess, within narrow limits.
Overwhelmed by the possibility thus presented to my contemplation, I sat for some time irresolute. Would it not be better to leave the matter in doubt? But no! any certainty was preferable to this suspense. No longer with eager hope, but filled with a stubborn desire to learn the exact truth, I prosecuted my now distasteful task. Soon, too soon, I found what I sought. Yes: on a certain date in the year 1883, Ismar Thiusen married Edith Mary, only daughter of Ruthven Alston, of . The peculiarity of the names left no room for doubt. I was the ancestor of Reva Diotha.
I sat down, and tried to face my position, but in vain: my thoughts were in a whirl. Deuro found me sitting there. Shocked at my appearance, he earnestly expostulated with me on my excessive ardor in research. I did not feel in condition to argue the matter: so, though it was yet comparatively early in the morning, I left the building, and hastened out into the open air.
About two-hours' distance by rail, eastward from Salu, was a spot to which I had for some time been intending to make a pilgrimage. It was a spot hallowed by lofty memories. There had been fought the great and terrible contest that proved the turning-point in the hitherto resistless career of the great invader known as the last of the despots.
Once seated in the car, and speeding thither at the rate of a hundred miles an hour, or so, I found myself able to reflect, with some degree of calmness, upon the strange position in which I found myself. Yet, in the midst of my distress, only too well founded as I regarded it, I was fully conscious of the grotesque element in the situation. Was ever mortal involved in such a case as mine? I was not only deeply, irretrievably in love with my own descendant in the three hundred and thirty-first degree,—for such was the exact number of generations from Edith to Reva,—but had also the assurance of that love being fully returned.
But, argued I to myself, as soon as the first feeling of unreasoning consternation had passed, if I am the ancestor of Reva, am I not also my own ancestor? Am I not the ancestor of all the Diothas? At this thought, a thrill of pardonable pride passed through my bosom, as I thought of that noble line, renowned in every department of literature and art, and pre-eminently endowed with every womanly grace.
"A man may not marry his granddaughter," says the canon law. But what about his descendant in the three-hundredth degree, and more? Was I not, to all intents and purposes, as regards that law, an entirely different. person from that Ismar Thiusen whose very dust had long since vanished from the earth? As much so, indeed, as Reva was a different person from Edith Alston.
If, again, as I had every reason to believe, it was the re-embodied spirit of Edith that animated Reva, had I not an indefeasible claim upon her who, according to the testimony of those time-eaten records, had been my wife? As this consideration occurred to me, it seemed conclusive. I could have cried aloud for joy. The question was settled as regarded my own doubts. What but a short time before had filled me with dismay, now, regarded from another point of view, afforded a subject for the most pleasing reflections. I almost longed for the time when it would be my privilege to reveal to her the pleasing fact that she—
At this thought all my uneasiness returned in full force. How would Reva regard the matter? The reasoning that appeared so conclusive to me might prove far from convincing to her. After debating the subject for some time with myself, I finally resolved to lay the whole matter before Hulmar, and abide by his decision. Such confidence had I in his judgment, that, even should it prove adverse to my dearest hopes,—which I little feared, for had I not common sense and justice on my side?—I would submit as to the decree of conscience. As for Reva, I knew that she, too, would accept his decision as final.
Evening was approaching when I re-entered Salu, in a very different state of mind from that with which I had left it. At my quarters I found a message awaiting me, to the effect that a telephone-call had sounded for me some hours before. On learning of my absence, the caller had requested the placing of a diuba. This useful piece of apparatus consisted of an ingeniously contrived sealed case, containing a phonographic registering apparatus, to which any private or confidential message might be safely confided. On breaking the seal, and setting the apparatus in motion, I first listened to a brief message from Hulmar. He gently reproached me with my excessive devotion to research. Deuro, it seems, had communicated with him soon after my departure.
"No discoveries, however interesting," he concluded, "could compensate for injury to your health. I will not say more on that subject at present, however. Reva bas a message that will effectually prevent any danger from that source for the present."
Hulmar had, seemingly, not communicated to Reva the alarming message he had received. Her tones breathed only joyous anticipation.
"Ialma has at last revealed the plan she would not that day reveal to Ulmene and me. You would never guess how good she has been. She put off her wedding-day for a week—you remember how it surprised us all—entirely on our account, yes, yours and mine. With Olav's consent,—what a good brother he is, and how glad I am he likes you!—Ialma has arranged to have her wedding at Falo (the later name of Buffalo), so that you may be present. I had resigned myself not to see you for a whole year, yet thought myself happy. But now"—
Then followed some directions and explanations. In the first place, I was to leave Salu that same evening, so as to join Olav next morning at a small village in the neighborhood of Falo. There was no time to be lost. I telephoned at once to Resval, for so my friend the scientist was called, to explain the cause of my departure, and beg him to provide a substitute for me in the duties I had undertaken. The ideas of the period exacted extreme regard for engagements of every kind, so that I was not without uneasiness as to my ability to get away at such short notice. But, says one of the wisest of men, "All mankind loves a lover,"—a truth that will ever hold more true as love becomes more sacred.
"Such a summons as yours goes before every thing," was the reply that came sounding over the wires. "Some one shall be found to take your place. Viana says she will do so herself if no other arrangement can be made."
Though Viana, his lovely and accomplished wife, said this mainly in jest, I felt not the slightest doubt that she would make good her word should needful occasion arise. This matter satisfactorily arranged, I found, that, by using the utmost despatch, 1 could leave by the swift night-train for the East.
That I succeeded in doing so was due in a large measure to the considerate forethought of the kind Viana. At her suggestion, a young zerdar I had met at her house called for me in his curricle, in order to convey me to the immense station across the river, at some distance from my quarters. This friend in need seemed well acquainted with the purpose of my sudden departure, and offered his congratulations upon what appeared to him a most enviable piece of good fortune. He, poor fellow, had yet full six months to wait before he could visit that spot, some lonely island in the Indian Ocean, to him the dearest upon earth.
I found time, before the train left, to send on a few words announcing my departure, promising to send more by diuba. Scarcely was the train in motion, when I proceeded to carry this promise into effect. In the special compartment provided for the purpose, I confided to the faithful diuba all I wished to say. There was plenty of time, since we did not halt for the first hundred miles. The case being confided by me to the proper agent, was put off at this station, where they knew what was to be done.
As the train moved off, I pleased myself with the idea that my message was already transmitted to the recording instrument in Hulmar's study,—might possibly be already sounding in the ears for which it was intended. On the diuba, in fact, being placed in connection with the proper wire, the message within was almost instantaneously transmitted to the phonographic sheet always set in readiness to receive it. The message could then be listened to, much as we read a letter. The unimpaired eyesight, as well as the extraordinary fineness of ear, I found universally prevalent among these people, were both attributable, in a great measure, to the extent to which the ear had superseded and lightened the labors of the eye. All correspondence, and much the greater part of literary labor, were done by voice and ear. The finest literature, moreover, was scarcely ever read from books. It was committed to long phonographic sheets. Placed in the instrument, these reproduced, will fit utterance, the grand or beautiful thoughts the world will not let die, in the very voice and accent of the great masters of vocal expression. The effective rendering of the finest passages of literature had become a branch of the fine arts. To this, those possessing the requisite natural endowments devoted themselves with an ardor commensurate with the reputation to be acquired by a noble rendering of a well-known passage, a fame second only, and sometimes not second, to that of the author interpreted. Such a rendering of a favorite author could, according to the mood of the hearer, be listened to reclining, or walking about the apartment, or, best of all, while engaged in some mechanical employment that leaves the mind free.
At the next station I was not disappointed in my expectation. A diuba addressed to me was placed on the train. Retired to the appropriate compartment, I drank in with greedy ears the tones that reached them with the cadence of sweetest music. Utis, Ulmene, and Ialma had already gone to Falo that afternoon. Reva and her father were to follow next morning.
"Ere this time to-morrow, Ialma and Olav shall have met,—and we too," was added in a soft whisper, that had all the sweetness of a kiss.
By this time to-morrow! Ah me!