The Diothas, or, A Far Look Ahead/Chapter 40
There remains little more to tell. The sprig of eglantine proved of good omen on this occasion also. I went, made due acknowledgment of my fault, was met half-way by the dearest and noblest of girls. Our present happiness is but enhanced by the remembrance of that period of estrangement and separation, which really taught us how deeply and truly we prized what seemed irrevocably lost. Before news can reach us from Weissnichtwo, I hope to have in readiness, for instant despatch, the cards to which my friend alluded, to announce what will then be an event in the past. Nor will this formal announcement be all. Edith has promised to write. We often speak of him. She acknowledges the high esteem in which she held him.
"I almost regretted," said she playfully, "that I had no heart to give him. But that, you know, was long since bestowed elsewhere."
On one subject, however, I have not yet ventured to open my mind. Warned by my experience with Reva, I am shy of awaking the jealousy that seems latent in the most perfect of the sex. Yet how often does some word or gesture of hers recall, with all the vividness of actuality, a tender memory of that fair vision, of whom I feel the more disinclined to make mention as yet, from the fact that I am even now not quite able to convince myself of her non-existence! The events and personages of that strange experience have still for me a reality not surpassed by that of this actual existence. At times, indeed, I find myself inclined to doubt whether this is not the phantasmal and that the real, wondering whether I may not awake to find myself lying in the swinging cot in the house of Utis, looking toward the strangely divided dial above the door, to mark the hour, and think, with a thrill of inward joy, that, ere the band had advanced over three of those spaces, I should again be basking in the sunshine of a certain presence, once more have heard the pleasant morning greeting uttered by a certain voice.
At times, too, there recurs to me, with somewhat bewildering effect, vague reminiscences of a peculiar transcendental philosophy, of which Hulmar had afforded me occasional glimpses. Though, at the time, the main effect of what I heard of this speculation was to produce in me a feeling of vertigo, I now greatly regret the slight interest I then took in what would now prove so interesting. What material it would afford for a lecture before that summer gathering of deep and earnest thinkers, who seek relaxation from graver pursuits in a graceful toying with such airy themes as The Thinkableness of the Unthinkable! Even as it is, might not my subject prove as attractive in its way as Reva's thistle? The idea smiles upon me, and perhaps—But I must first find what Edith will say. Has not the wisdom of the ages settled that a man can become great or famous only by his wife's permission?
According to the view of things above adverted to, the different stages in the history of our race are not successive only, but are also co-existent and co-extensive with each other. Just as in a given block of marble, there is contained, not one only, but every possible statue, though, of the whole number, only one at a time can be made evident to our senses; so, in a given region of space, any number of worlds can co-exist, each with its own population conscious of only that world, or set of phenomena, to which their ego is attuned. Impenetrability, resistance, etc., are thus but relative properties, effective only among the correlated set of phenomena that constitutes a given world. As the sound-waves from an orchestra freely intersect, and yet retain their integrity; so the phenomena of these various co-existent worlds occupy the same space without interference,—without, indeed, the dwellers in the one so much as suspecting the presence around them of beings conversant with infinitely diversified systems of phenomena.
I should not like Edith, without due preliminary explanation, to become aware of the strange imaginings that pass at times through my mind, even when happy by her side. This is especially the case when I listen to certain music of hers,—music to which I was always highly susceptible, and which now sounds like a re-echo of the divine harmonies once heard in the house of Utis. Is it not possible, I sometimes muse, that that wild plunge over the edge of the cataract was, after all, a reality? May not, at this moment, the story of Reva and Ismar,—of Reva the beautiful, the gifted, whose songs with their strange archaic melodies had in one short month reached the ears of a listening world,—of Ismar, so strangely familiar with the ways and lore of a long-forgotten past,—may not their story be the theme of sympathizing comment in the communings of many a loving pair,—have already taken its place as an item in the stock of romantic incident that forms, in every age, the favorite theme of poetry and art? While we are thus mourned, perhaps sung, in that world whence we so suddenly passed, may it not be that our spirits, for some fault or imperfection that rendered us unfit for the companionship of the comparatively pure spirits inhabiting that work,—may they not, I would think, have been relegated to this earlier and barbarous period, hence again to struggle upward to a higher plane?
So strong a hold have these fancies taken upon me, that at times I feel seriously alarmed, and heartily wish my friend had not taken me for the subject of his experiment. It is not only the confusing effect produced by the intercalation into my consciousness of a whole series of scenes and events, so lifelike as with difficulty to be distinguished from reality. By a sort of spiritual "transfusion of blood" I find myself permeated, as it were, with many of those peculiar notions of E's which I used most vigorously to combat. I can imagine the smile with which, in his distant exile, he will read of the march he stole on me when, in my helpless sleep, he inoculated me with his social and political heresies, which I must get rid of as soon as possible if I am to pursue my profession with any comfort or success.
Even during his college career, E was regarded as somewhat crotchety, though undeniably brilliant. But, during his two-years' stay at a German university, he found time to take on board a whole cargo of new crotchets. He did not return an admirer of the rococo in art or government, a disciple of the dyspeptic philosophy, or imbued with the conviction that the highest aim of man is a thorough acquaintance with the uses of the Latin dative. What he had seen of the workings of paternal government had but confirmed his sturdy republicanism. He returned, moreover, thoroughly imbued with this one conviction, that whatever position the American people is destined to take in the history of literature, art, or science, its immediate mission is to demonstrate to mankind the splendid possibilities of popular institutions. The nations of the Old World, handicapped by their burden of hoary prejudices and abuses, reasonably look to us to lead the way in the path so courageously entered upon about a century ago. Placed thus in the van of progress, on a path made smooth for us by the courage and devotion of others, ours will be the shame if we fail to rise to the occasion.
All this is reasonable enough. His strangest crotchet is, the strong hostility he has conceived against the legal profession. Yet he had prepared himself for that profession by an unusually thorough course of training. Soon after his return he entered, as junior partner, the well-known legal firm of Star & Dash. Within a few mouths, however, he suddenly withdrew. What the occasion was, he did not feel at liberty to explain, even Star, the senior partner, with whom I have some acquaintance, said, when referring to the matter,—
"I can't, of course, explain the matter more precisely just now. The case, in regard to which our little difference of opinion arose, is still for trial. His objection, you will find, was utterly absurd. If all were to stick at such trifles, the profession would"—Here the old gentleman shook his head, and seemed lost in contemplation of the unwonted mental vista thus suggested.
"E has some means of his own, hasn't he?" resumed the old lawyer after a pause.
"He has,—not a large fortune," replied I, "but amply sufficient for his wants."
"Ah, there's the rub!" exclaimed the old gentleman in a tone of vexation. "If you could only persuade him to invest that money in some wild-cat mine, or get him engaged to a Fifth-Avenue belle, you would really be doing him a friendly turn."
"How so?" said I.
"Why, then, of course, be would be obliged to give up those high-strung notions that now render him unavailable for the profession. If either of these things happen. to him, let me know. I am speaking seriously. I shall be glad to have him back, and will let him pick his cases. Now, don't forget."
E, however, did not accept the olive-branch thus extended. It was, indeed, during the conversation in this connection, that he fairly startled me by the energy with which he unbosomed himself of the long-pent-up bitterness he had nursed for some time past.
"It is no rashly adopted notion," said he. "For months past it has been more and more borne in on me, that, in its present developments, the legal profession is the pest of our social system, the chief danger to our institutions. Is it not a fact that we are the most lawyerridden community on the face of the earth? When our fathers, carefully shutting the door on kingcraft and priestcraft, made law supreme, was it their intention that this should mean the supremacy of petty quibblers and unscrupulous shysters?
"While denouncing the faults of a class," he continued, "you must not suppose that I arraign every individual of that class. For, leaving ourselves out of the question, can I forget that Lincoln and Garfield were lawyers and politicians as well as Charles Guiteau and Starrut Blatherskyte. We have a right, however, to judge a class, not by the practice of the exceptional few, but by the standard of ethics avowed and acted upon by the many.
"The dangerous element in our midst may be roughly classified as follows: First and most numerous, though not most dangerous, are the predatory classes proper, from the tramp, just hovering on the verge of crime, to the millionnaire swindler, able to repay with four-figure checks the advice that enables him to rob with impunity. Next come lawyers, the efficient allies of the preceding class, which, without their aid, would cease to exist, or would become, at least, greatly diminished in numbers. As the feudal tyrant jealously protected the game, to him both a pleasure and a profit, though a destructive misance to the luckless husbandman; so the legal fraternity watchfully guard the interests of the class with whose existence their own is so closely involved. Last come the professional politicians, a hybrid class that combines, in varying proportions, the characteristics of both the foregoing classes.
"Of all these, the lawyer class is by far the most pernicious. As a class they foster crime and fraud, both by their active opposition to the enactment of effectually deterrent laws, but chiefly by holding out the prospect of almost certain escape through the wide meshes of such inadequate laws as do exist. They swarm in our legislatures, where their influence on law-making is purely mischievous. To them we owe that wonderful style of oratory known as 'congressional,' that unique combination of inflated verbiage with appeals to the lowest considerations of self-interest and prejudice. While they might have as audience the most numerous and most generally intelligent people ever addressed by an orator, most of them seem unable to rise above the impression that they are still haranguing the twelve prize-imbeciles of the neighborhood, assembled in the district court-house.
"In no other country has the judiciary been intrusted with such important functions as in this, in none has the legal profession been so sure an avenue to distinction; yet in none are the laws so clumsily constructed, in none are they so feebly enforced. Are not our courts a by-word throughout Christendom? Is there any country in Europe, Turkey perhaps excepted, where life and property are so feebly protected by the law as among us? Has it not come to this, that the foulest and most cowardly assassin feels confident of impunity, provided he is able to retain the services of one of those convenient accessories after the fact, who hire themselves out, not to commit murder indeed, but to further the assassin's escape,—a safer as well as more lucrative business than that of the hired bravo, and, at the same time,—as posterity will read with wondering incredulity,—perfectly respectable?…Mark my words: if society continues thus to shirk one of its most imperative duties, individnals will re-assert the dormant right of blood-revenge; the time will come when the male relatives of the murdered will live in disgrace as long as the assassin breathes."
As my friend uttered these words, his eyes flashed indignant fire; and I well knew that he was thinking of a specially atrocious miscarriage of justice that had recently occurred. There was, of course, no use in arguing with him while in such a mood. I said merely,—
"My dear fellow, your liver must be in a terrible condition. You must really take something."
"On the contrary," returned he with a laugh, "it is I have made you take something; and it has done me an immense deal of good."
Such is the eccentric friend whose happiness Edith and I are plotting. From some words that fell from her the other day, I know she is planning which of her uncle S's pretty daughters is to be the future Mrs. E. Who knows? It seems to me quite possible, that the yet unsuspecting Mabel, Edith's prettiest cousin, and resembling her in many ways, is destined to become my friend's wife, and the mother of that Estai who, as I read in the great library at Salu, is to become my son-in-law in the year of grace 1910.
Be that as it may, I am sufficiently happy in the present to be willing to let the future take care of itself. For it must not be imagined, that my occasional indulgence in such fanciful speculations as those before mentioned. arises from any useless repining after that more perfect existence of which I caught some glimpses. Is not the Edith-Reva of the present what the Reva-Edith of that existence would have been,—the sum and centre of my hopes and wishes?
Some predictions tend to bring about their own fulfilment. On my assurance that the request had an adequate reason, afterwards to be explained, Edith consented to change the date first mentioned to one slightly earlier,—the same, indeed, I had seen in that time-stained chronicle in the library at Salu. The appearance of this little story may be accepted as a certain sign that the event whose announcement I then read with such mingled emotions has actually taken place. For, in her hands, soon after we start on our journey, I intend to place the first completed copy of the story in which her name so frequently recurs. She, if possible, shall be the first to read the tale as one of the reading public. We shall visit together the site of that gently sloping lawn, on the shores of Grand Isle, where I caught my last glimpse of Olav, Hulmar, and Utis, of Ialma and Ulmene. Together we shall stand on the spot whence, as the sun went down, the awe-stricken multitude witnessed the strange espousals of the fated pair, as they rushed to their doom over the verge of the mist-covered abyss.