# The Diothas, or, A Far Look Ahead/Chapter 4

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The beautiful Reva had entered the same car with Utis and me. In spite of my admiration, however, it was with somewhat mixed feelings that I contemplated the possibility of a conversation with her. If she would only be content to do all the talking herself, how gladly would I listen. But should she refer—as naturally she would—to whence I came, and what I had seen, how in the world was I to reply? What, indeed. could I say at all, without seeming to have taken leave of my senses? A wild idea occurred to me. I might assume the rôle of a deaf-mute. But besides placing me in a false position, from which extrication would be difficult, the rôle was not a brilliant one. A moment's reflection, too, convinced me that it was too late: she must have seen me conversing with Utis.
Even should she defray the whole expense of the conversation, leaving me at liberty to assume the role of listener, matters would be but slightly bettered. I recalled with dismay the mauvais quart d'heure I once had passed, while a fair Bostonian demonstrated to me the thesis of the interconvertibility of the thingness of noth​ingness, and the nothingness of thingness. My alarms, however, were in vain. Scarcely had we entered the car when Reva perceived a bevy of girls of her own age. She forsook us at once, with a smile and a bow, and hastened over to her fair friends, where presently I saw her exhibiting, to an apparently appreciative audience, the piece of mechanism to me such a mystery.
Utis became engaged in conversation with some friends; and I was left, for a while, to my own reflections. It might. be the re-action after the mental strain involved in the reception of so many novel ideas, but seldom have I felt so intensely depressed. I felt humiliated in my own esteem. I, the college-trained, the much-travelled man, the leading spirit of my set; I, whose knowledge was regarded by a fond mother and admiring sister as almost encyclopedic,—I to shrink from the conversation of a young girl, through fear of betraying my gross ignorance!
My meditations were broken in upon, at this point, by a silvery laugh proceeding from the corner to which Reva had betaken herself. Could they be laughing at me? Had she discovered my ignorance, even through my veil of silence, and was showing me up to her companions? A furtive glance in that direction re-assured me. They evidently were paying no attention to me. Such is the inconsistency of man, that, for a moment, I actually felt aggrieved at what at first gave me such relief,—Reva's discovery of more interesting companionship than mine.
Just then the train slackened its pace. Utis and I alighted amid a crowd of passengers, among whom I lost sight of Reva; and presently we two were left alone on the platform, giving a last glance to the train as it vanished round a distant curve.
​"You may look about here for a few moments," sail Utis, but do not wander far. I will not be long absent."
Left to myself, I first turned my eyes toward the river. The broad Hudson glittered in the rays of the sun, now descending toward the hills on the farther shore. Rivercraft of strange appearance were gliding over the faintly rippled surface, while from them strains of distant music fell with a caressing cadence upon my ear. These vessels were evidently set in motion by some internal machinery. Yet no hideous smoke-stack disfigured their decks, no pitchy train of smoke lung heavily behind. The outline of the western hills seemed familiar, though altered, like the lineaments of the friend we meet after a separation of years.
The changes were greatest in the form of the Palisades, as I subsequently had occasion to observe. The lapse of nearly eighty centuries would alone have produced considerable alteration in their outline, but the ever-active hand of man had effected far more. Instead of the bold, precipitous wall now dominating the river, like the rockbuilt ramparts of a Titan race, gentle slopes, in a state of high cultivation, extended to the water's edge. Only isolated fragments, rising at intervals in solitary grandeur, lent a savage grace to the otherwise, perhaps, too placid scene.
What chiefly had led to the extensive disappearance of the rock, was the discovery of the valuable properties of trap as the basis of certain fertilizers. First the talus, now so extensive, had been carried away for that purpose; when that was exhausted, the rock itself had been ​quarried and ground down; till, in the course of ages, further discoveries in agricultural chemistry had led to the disuse of trap in favor of other rocks.
The light being unfavorable for the view in that direction, I soon turned away from the river in order to examine objects nearer at hand. Having gained some insight into the changes effected by time in the city, I felt some curiosity to discover whether corresponding changes had taken place in the slow-moving country. I was soon to learn, that the alterations in the aspect of the city were but slight compared with the utter change in the conditions of rural life. Cities, after all, remain much the same, as to their main characteristics, in all ages. The difference between Babylon and London must be much less than the difference between the aspect of the country around London as it appeared to Cæsar and as it appears to us now. Changes of equal extent had been wrought. here.
We had left the train at what appeared to be a small village. Yet nowhere was to be seen any trace of that pervading lack of neatness and finish which, in our day, usually characterizes the country. The smooth concrete of the platform where I stood was continued in one unbroken sweep to the houses seen on the farther side of the broad, open space surrounding the station. The buildings visible, though inferior in size to those of the city, were as solidly constructed, and of similar materials. Broad verandas, extending completely round each story, imparted, by their broken lines and deep shadows, a peculiarly picturesque character to the architecture.
My attention was specially drawn toward the house-​tops. On these could be seen masses of dense foliage, which, seeming to overflow, draped the battlement-shaped cornices. This, to me, novel architectural embellishment was, as I afterwards found, in general use, even in the city. The height of the city buildings had prevented me from noting there the presence of these elevated gardens, an account of which I must defer to a future occasion. For the present I will merely state, that, whether in city or country, the houses are so solidly constructed, that, on their flat roofs covered with malleable glass, they are able to support a thickness of several feet of soil. On this are grown flowers, and various species of arborescent shrubs, especially such as afford good shade. During the warm season these roof-gardens are a favorite resort; since, from their elevation, they are comparatively free from dust, and are apt to catch any wandering breeze. The thick roof, too, is found no slight advantage, both in summer and winter.
Nor was that on the house-tops the only verdure to be seen. A double row of magnificent elms, seemingly of great age, surrounded the whole square, and could be seen extending along the streets, as far as these were visible from my point of view.
I was in the midst of these observations when Utis reappeared. He was seated on a vehicle, which, under his guidance, glided noiselessly as a canoe over the smooth concrete. I now remarked for the first time, that not a wheel-track, not a dent of iron-shod hoofs, was to be seen on its surface. It seemed never to be trodden by aught heavier than the foot of man. It now also occurred to me, that, though many passengers had alighted with us, ​no vehicles of any kind had met my eye, nor had I heard any sound indicating their presence. The vehicle in which Utis now approached was, in form and construction, not unlike a two-seated tricycle. The motive-power, however, was not supplied by the muscles of the rider, but by a compact electric motor, placed beneath the seat.
First starting at a moderate speed, we crossed the open square, then proceeded at a rapidly increasing rate down the main street of the village. A clear note, like that from a silver horn, and emitted from an instrument governed by a key inserted in the tiller, served to give warning of our approach. This was the more necessary, because, the entire roadway being laid with a concrete as smooth and hard as stone, our curricle—as I may freely render the native appellation of our vehicle—sped on its course as noiselessly as a shadow.
Like all the main roads, this roadway was divided into three nearly equal divisions by four rows of trees. The central, somewhat broader division, was reserved for curricles. The outer divisions were assigned to the vehicles that carried on the heavy traffic. These were of about the dimensions of a farmer's wagon, and had each its own motor, capable of exerting a force of five or six horsepower. Their low wheels were provided with exceedingly broad tires, so as not to injure the roadway. About six miles an hour was their permitted limit of speed, and they were not allowed to cross the central road without special precautions.
Human life was not held so cheap as now, when a brakeman or two a day is considered a slight sacrifice to ​economize a few dollars. If any one by negligence caused the loss of a human life, his life was placed unreservedly at the disposal of the nearest relatives of the slain. It was in their option, either to exact life for life, or to accept a suitable ransom.
To me, a life-member of the Society for the Prevention of Justice to Assassins, and accustomed to regard the lives of homicides alone as specially sacred,—so sacred, indeed, that they must be preserved by any sacrifice of time, money, or justice,—the above-mentioned law seemed, at first, simply barbarous. Afterwards, however, I was obliged to admit that the law worked well in practice, however indefensible in theory. Homicides of any kind were extremely rare.
When we had fairly emerged into the country, the curricle, gradually increasing its speed, moved over the smooth track like a shadow, obedient to the slightest. touch of its guide. Steering was effected much as in the tricycle of the present: the brakes were controlled by the feet. The forefinger, by means of a lever resembling the brake of a bicycle, regulated the amount of force allowed to issue from the reservoir.
"How do you like this?" said Utis, when our speed rose first to fifteen, then to twenty, miles an hour. "But now brace yourself!" he exclaimed, as we reached the brow of a long declivity. A glance, to assure himself of a clear roadway, a warning blast from the sounder, and down we flew with a velocity that reminded me of my once-enough experience on the cow-catcher of a locomotive. Such was the momentum imparted to the vehicle, that it carried us far up the opposite acclivity. Here, ​somewhat to my surprise, my conductor reversed our direction, saying in explanation,—
"As we are not pressed for time, I have taken you some distance past our turning, so as to give you a fair idea of our ordinary means of locomotion."
"What speed can these machines attain?" I inquired, with a lively recollection of our recent spin down the slope we were now leisurely ascending.
"On a level they easily maintain a speed of twenty miles an hour: on a long descent, they are never allowed to attain the velocity they might reach, for obvious considerations."
At this moment the long, clear blast of the sounder was heard from behind. After a brief interval a single rider on his curricle dashed past us at a rapid rate that soon took him out of sight.
"Yon see the white line running along the centre of the road," resumed Utis. "The rule of the road requires that line to be kept on the left, except when passing a vehicle in front. Then the line may be crossed, provided the way on that side is clear."
It is not to be supposed the only vehicle seen was that above mentioned. Especially since we had turned, we continued to meet them at short intervals. All, evidently, were on their way home. Wagons, too, rumbled along steadily, or turned off on the road leading to the owner's abode. Glimpses I caught of them between the trees, as they moved along on the roads parallel with ours, made me wish for a nearer view. But for their dress, the drivers, seated in front on their saddle-shaped seats, would have strongly reminded me of brakesmen on wagons de​scending an incline, a resemblance furthered by the shape of the tiller by which they guided their machines. But here the strange spectacle was to be seen of wagons running up acclivities without any visible motive-power.
A gesture from one of these drivers made Utis turn his curricle aside between two trees,—the usual halting-place. After exchanging a few words with the stranger, a man of noble appearance, with grizzled though abundant locks, Utis introduced him to me as his uncle. He greeted me with a cordiality quite unlooked for by me under the circumstances. His bearing, indeed, was that of an old family friend. What struck me as peculiar was the look of troubled scrutiny I detected when his eyes were turned upon me, as if he were in some anxiety on my account. So strong was this impression, that I might have made some remark on the subject, had not Utis began to speak as soon as we resumed our journey.
"You now have seen our country-roads," was his first remark, and all our means of conveyance."
"Have you no horses, then?" said I.
"None," was the reply, "except in zoölogical collections."
"How, then," said I, "are agricultural operations carried on?"
"By means of caloric engines, worked by the regulated escape of highly condensed gases. They are much used. for such purposes, being somewhat more economical than electric power. Seated on a machine of appropriate construction, the farmer ploughs, sows, reaps, performs, in fine, all the labor of the farm, without more muscular effort than is required for guidance. Agriculture is now ​a matter of brain-work, fully as much as the labors of the physician or analyst in your days."
Meanwhile we had turned into a by-road, narrower, indeed, than that by which we had travelled so far, but with quite as smooth a surface, and bordered by fine trees. At frequent intervals,—so frequent, indeed, as to suggest the idea of a populous suburban district,—pathways branched off, leading to villa-like abodes embosomed amid trees of secular age. Yet another turn, this time into a pathway little more than wide enough for the passage of our vehicle, and we come to a halt beneath a porch projecting from the spacious veranda that surrounded the house.
The appellation veranda must not suggest a flimsy structure of wood, constructed in a style of art that well matches the shabby material. Here slender moresque columns supported a light entablature of the same general style. On this, again, was reared a similar structure, the colonnade of the second story being of somewhat less width than that below. A parapet of open, carved work, surmounting the whole, enclosed the universal flat roof. All was of stone, which, though in perfect repair, presented marks of great antiquity.
On a mat near the door lay a magnificent Persian cat, which scarcely deigned to honor us with a glance from her sleepy eyes. But not so a small dog of breed unknown to me. At sight of his master he gave vent to a clamorous demonstration of joy that manifestly rendered needless any other announcement of our arrival.