# The Diothas, or, A Far Look Ahead/Chapter 6

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When the ladies left us, Utis and I passed out on the broad veranda, and looked for a while on the moon-lit scene. My host seemed so absorbed in meditation, that, though burning to ask an explanation on certain points, I did not venture to break in on his revery. Ile gave me the impression of one debating inwardly how to open a subject, and not able to resolve on the way. At last he said, half absently,—
"It is much pleasanter on the roof: there is more air."
We re-entered the house, and began to ascend the stair. Thinking he had forgotten the matter, I reminded him that all the doors and windows were wide open.
"Now that it is so warm," he replied, "we leave the house as open as possible."
"But," said I with some hesitation, "have you no fear of burglars?"
"Burglars," he repeated slowly, "burglars, what is that?"
I was about to reply by a formal definition of the term, but it occurred to me that it was somewhat difficult to ​commit technical burglary in a house left perfectly open to all comers. I replied, therefore,—
"Thieves, I mean."
"Oh! thieves. There are no such creatures among us, or, at least, are as phenomenal as cannibals were in your time. No: we need close our doors against nothing more formidable than cold or wet."
While thus talking, we had reached the roof. It was covered with a dense, closely shaven sward. Closely shaven, at least, it appeared to me. But, in reality, the grass was of a species that never grew beyond little more than an inch in length, the result of long-continued selection. Warning me to avoid the grass, on which the dew was falling, he led the way to a stone platform, whence was visible an extensive view of the surrounding country. After pointing out the more interesting features of the scene, especially a glimpse of the Hudson in the distance, he began,—
"I see you are anxious to speak about something."
"I may well be so," was my reply. "You know how I came into this strange illusion, and you alone have the power to bring it to a termination. It is not unpleasant meanwhile; but, should it last too long, it might become to me too much of a reality."
Even by the indistinct moonlight I could perceive that my host's face was troubled and anxious. He regarded me for a few moments in silence, then answered by a question.
"You have, then, a strong conviction that this is not your real existence?"
"Strong conviction!" I exclaimed, amazed at such a question. "I am certain that it is not."
​"Argument in such a case is, of course, useless," said Utis, "seeing that the evidence of your senses is rejected. You have stated your conviction: I will now lay before you the reality as it appears to me. You can then judge for yourself. Not to clash too violently with your present convictions, I will speak in the third person of him whose name you bear."
"One moment," said I. "I bear, as you say, the name of Ismar Thiusen among those to whom you have introduced me under that name. But have you always known me by that name?"
"As I never saw you till this morning," said Utis, with an amused smile, "it is not difficult for me to answer in the affirmative."
At these words I began almost to doubt my own identity or sanity. It was impossible for me to suspect my host's sincerity. Yet how reconcile this with the evidence of my whole recollection of the past? At first I knew not what to say further. Then occurred to me what seemed a crucial question.
"How, then, if you met me to-day for the first time, can you have any assurance that I am the person known as Ismar Thiusen?"
"A person may be known in many ways, though never seen," was the reply. "As the only son of the dearest friend of my youth, Ismar Thiusen has been known to me from childhood, in portrait, by correspondence, and by voice. The Ismar I met this morning is, in every feature, the exact counterpart of the portraits I can show you down-stairs: they form, as you will see, an unbroken series from his very infancy. His voice, too, ​not only recalls that of his father, but had become familiar to me in the course of frequent telephonic intercourse."
After this, there seemed nothing more to say. I felt, too, somewhat curious to learn a little of myself in the new personality so unaccountably thrust upon me. I signified, accordingly, my readiness to listen without further objection. Utis began, as follows, an account that embodied what was regarded, by all around me, as the real history of my past life.
"Ismar Thiusen, a near connection of mine by marriage, is—as I have before said—the son of a very dear friend. It was through me, indeed, that Eured Thiusen first became acquainted with the Osna Diotha that finally accompanied him to his distant home in Maoria. The Thiusens, as you ought to know, are by no means among the least considered among the families of those islands. They have given names illustrious in every branch of human attainment.
"I see you were about to speak, but checked yourself. Now, I beg you not to hesitate, but speak out, if any thing I say suggests a question. From the peculiar circumstances in which I find myself placed with respect to yon, I shall be extremely liable to allude to matters that will be at least obscure without explanation."
It was in answer to a question I then put, that I received an explanation of the system of family names already mentioned. He concluded this exposition by saying,—
"Diotha is, indeed, a frequent, but by no means the ​only, female family name. My mother was a Palutha: your—I mean Ismar's grandmother—is a Sasta, a matron still as active and energetic as when her son brought home his bride."
"How old may she be?" I inquired.
After a short mental calculation, he stated her age as about seventy four or five. This, as I subsequently found, was by no means regarded as an advanced age. The average duration of human life had, through various causes, been prolonged by about thirty years. At seventy a person was, in health and expectation of life, fully on a par with one of forty at present; and lives of a hundred were rather more frequent than lives of seventy among us.
"It seems but yesterday," resumed my host, "when my friend's letters were filled with enthusiastic accounts of his son's extraordinary taste and aptitude for the studies in which he himself had gained such distinction. Eured Thiusen's minute investigations into the languages and early history of our race had made his name famous throughout the world. A premature death carried him off at what seemed but the beginning of a brilliant career.
"As soon as Ismar had recovered from his first grief, he resolved to devote his life to the completion of his father's unfinished work, and thus raise an enduring memorial to that honored name. In his ardor, he was not content with the ordinary means of study. Years of labor, he saw, would be requisite to place him merely where his father had stood. In his impatience, he rashly ventured on dangerous methods. A certain Mesmer, as you know, gave, at a very early period, some obscure hints, ​from which has developed a highly important branch of psychology. The body being thrown into a peculiar state of quiescence, the mind becomes capable of efforts altogether beyond its ordinary powers. By the aid of an energetic will, Ismar attained the power of putting himself, at will, into a trance-like state, during which his mind, released from the trammels of sense, worked freely in a pre-arranged course.
"During these trances he lived, as it were, another life in those distant ages with which his studies had made him familiar. Scraps and fragments of information, laboriously gathered from the mouldering records of the past, became blended into one consistent whole. Yet it seems incredible that even the ardor of investigation could make him willing to spend so much of his existence in a past so undesirable as that portrayed so vividly in his own and his father's works.
"There then existed, as we are told, several races of men. Some of these were in a condition not greatly raised above that of the lower animals, and were treated, in fact, as such by the more favored races. The latter had attained to some knowledge of the rudiments of science, and made a fair beginning of subduing to their use the forces of nature, but were themselves a prey to monstrous moral evils. A few of the more favored by nature or fortune appear to have lived a life approximating to that now lived by all. But even they must have found any fair share of happiness difficult to attain, surrounded, as they were, by every form of misery and degradation, the fault of man himself, not of the world in which he has been placed.
​"Repulsive as it seems to us, even to read of, Ismar spent, at last, fully one-half of his existence in the ideal world he had reconstructed. This became especially the ease after his return from Olim, where he had unearthed, from the vast accumulations in its immense libraries, new sources of information on his favorite topic and special period."
"What was this period?" I inquired, though almost certain what the answer would be.
"The latter half of the nineteenth century. This had been specially studied by father and son, as being remarkable as a period of transition. Many things then lingered that were soon to pass away forever. It was a period of fermentation and incipient corruption, from which society emerged at last, so fundamentally altered in its outward form, and many of its aims and views, as to bear scarcely any resemblance to that existing but a few generations before."
I did not again interrupt the narration to inquire about the city referred to under the name of Olim. This I afterwards found to be an ancient and famous seat of learning near the centre of the Australian continent. From many causes, not necessary to enumerate, the great library of its celebrated university was especially rich in documents relating to the history of the second and third chiliads. Among other unique treasures, it possessed photographic reductions of the files of leading journals during many centuries, during all the period, in fact, when the press was at the height of its power. I have seen a complete file of "The London Times" for a year concentrated into the space of a sheet of foolscap. By ​proper appliances these, again, could be thrown on a screen, so as to be read off at the convenience of the investigator.
"It was long before Ismar's mother and sister became alarmed by his increasing absorption in the ideal world he had created for himself. Silent and pre-occupied, he seemed to lose all interest in the real world around him; while his body wasted away, as if unequal to the burden of this double existence. At last came a crisis. He was discovered one morning in a death-like trance, in which he remained for weeks. An expert, summoned at great expense from a distant part of the globe, told of similar cases that had before occurred, though at rare intervals. He predicted that the patient, on awakening from his trance, would appear to have lost all recollection of his former life, or would recall it only through the distorting medium of his delusion. This prediction proved but too true. My unhappy kinsman had wrecked a splendid intellect in his too ardent pursuit of knowledge.
Health and strength returned with comparative rapidity. But he seemed to have lost all taste for his former studies, —to have lost, indeed, as far as could be discovered, all that knowledge acquired at so great a cost. In the ordinary affairs of life he behaved with propriety, though often betraying a strange oblivion of well-known facts. Towards his mother and sister he was the affectionate son and brother he had ever been; toward others as kind and considerate as ever. Yet, as would occasionally crop out from his conversation, he evidently associated them with some series of experiences of which they had no knowledge.
​The strangest of all was, it was his mother first discovered, or rather, divined, the fact,—a woman, in such matters, seems to arrive at correct conclusions almost by intuition,—it was his mother discovered that her son was silently enduring some secret heart-pang, the effect of unrequited or otherwise unfortunate love. The discovery gave both pleasure and pain. Among us, as you will find, the happy marriage of her children is a mother's chief aim; its promotion, as far as it can be effected by a third party, her special province. There is no difficulty as regards the daughters. They may fairly be left to choose for themselves, since they always have it in their power to choose. But with sons it is different. For several reasons, the supply of marriageable women is always below the demand. Each mother is, accordingly, anxious that her son shall not be left among the enforced celibates. She watches for any signs indicative of a preference on his part, and becomes her son's confidant, adviser, and zealous ally in his efforts to secure the maiden of his choice. Osna Diotha—it is the custom for widows to resume their maiden name—had been anxious on account of her son's apparent indifference to female society. She longed to secure a second daughter as a partial substitute for the one soon to pass to another house.
She was accordingly delighted to learn that her son was not so indifferent as she had supposed. At the same time she was pained by his want of confidence. Her son had loved, and not made her his confidant; had failed where, perhaps, with her co-operation, he might have been successful. He avoided, too, all explanation. Nor did she press for one after she began to suspect the unhappy ​truth. It was no girl of flesh and blood had secured his heart, but some mere creation of his disordered fancy."
Utis here paused in his narration, and said with some hesitation,—
"I am about to put a question of some delicacy. But, be assured, it is from no mere curiosity I inquire. I could have obtained the information otherwise, but forbore to pry, even in your interest, into what, though an illusion, may be to you a sacred recess of your consciousness. Do you really cherish in your heart the memory of one fair to you and dear beyond all others?"
"Yes, I have such a memory."
"May I ask her name?"
"Edith Alston."
"In what way was your love unhappy?"
"We parted in anger. Or, to be more correct as well as just, I was angry, and put myself utterly in the wrong."
Utis reflected for a moment, then said,—
"Have I your permission to impart this confidence to Osna Diotha? She is deeply interested in the matter."
Though unable to see how a perfect stranger could have an interest in what I imagined was so peculiarly my own affair, I consented to my host's proposal, the more readily from having no real conviction of the objective existence of such personages as those alluded to. The facts in regard to Edith Alston and myself were probably known—or partially so—to many besides my mother and sister; though I had never discussed the matter, even with them. Yet they perfectly understood the reason of my sudden departure for Europe—alone. A year of rest​less and dissatisfied wandering had brought me back in a humbled and repentant mood. Almost the first news I heard upon landing was the engagement of Edith Alston. The match was brilliant, so they said; his wealth was enormous: yet I thought she was throwing herself away.
This news was still fresh in my ears when, after a separation of several years, I chanced to meet him that I here call Utis. He was about to take a prominent part in a scientific expedition to a remote region of the globe. I earnestly begged him to take me as a volunteer paying my own expenses. In spite of a difference of several years in our ages, a bond of intimate acquaintance, almost approaching friendship, had for many years united us.
He soon learned the real origin of my sudden zeal for scientific research: he was too clear sighted to be easily misled. He earnestly dissuaded me from my intention. My battle was not yet lost, he said, and scouted the idea of so soon forsaking the field. On the eventful evening on which this story opens, he had called by appointment to make some final arrangements. In some unaccountable way the conversation had turned upon mesmerism; and, to my intense surprise, he had advanced views on that subject quite irreconcilable with my preconceived ideas of his mental attitude toward such subjects. The difference between the nineteenth century and the ninety-sixth was not greater than that between the Utis I had formerly known and the Utis who now resumed his narrative as follows:—
"Under these circumstances an entire change of scene ​and surroundings was recommended. His mother, who had been in frequent communication with me on the subject, commended her son to my best care. I accepted the trust, and Ismar Thiusen arrived this morning. To my pleasant surprise, he showed no outward traces of his mental malady. On the contrary, he seemed unusually intelligent and observant.
It might be the fatigue resulting from his long ramble round the city, it might be the excitement of new scenes. At all events, soon after reaching my office, where I attend to certain affairs that require my occasional presence in the city, he fell into a deep sleep, which soon became cataleptic in character. At first alarmed, I soon recognized the supreme importance of the opportunity thus presented to me of investigating the state of my patient's mind. Both as family friend, and as mental physician, it was my duty to shrink from no means of obtaining guidance for my treatment.
By well-known means I caused him to converse freely, taking great care not to influence the direction of his thoughts. What I thus discovered fully justified my action. Since his apparent recovery, my ward had been living in an imaginary world. The facts of his real existence, as presented to him through the distorting medium of his hallucination, assumed the forms of correlated facts as they had existed in that distant past on which he had concentrated all the powers of his mind.
My course of action was soon resolved on. There was but one path by which he could be brought to a clear perception of the objective facts of existence,—that was, to begin and become acquainted with these facts as ​a child does, ab initio. In order to effect this, I would allow him to awake under the full power of the delusion that he belonged to a past period. He should seem to enter this present world as a visitant from that past to which he imagined himself to belong. Under my guidance he should relearn what he had forgotten. I hoped to restore him to his friends at last, either altogether free from the dominion of those strange hallucinations, or remembering them only as the reminiscences of an almost forgotten dream.
One part of the plan has given me much perplexity. Should I allow him to remain under the belief that I share his delusion? By so doing, I should certainly gain his confidence, but would render myself, at the same time, a sort of accomplice with his delusion, and strengthen its hold upon him. Should I not, rather, frankly state to him the history of his case, as it appears to me and his friends? Even if his excellent understanding does not at once enable him to throw off the domination of those peculiar ideas; yet we two may, by a sort of tacit agreement, continue to act and speak, when by ourselves, as if I acquiesced in his view of the case. What is your opinion?"
Utis ceased, leaving my mind in a state of complete bewilderment. In his narrative, the bona fides of which I did not for a moment doubt, the main facts of my personal history, though correct in outline, were as strangely altered as was my new name from that I had recognized as mine up to a few hours before.
My capacity for astonishment was almost exhausted. Though conscious of being as wide awake as ever in my ​life, I came to the conclusion to save thought by accepting every thing that occurred as incidents in an extraordinary dream. I said, accordingly, after a few moments reflection,—
"The second of the two courses—that you have followed—seems to me the wiser as well as the more straightforward. It will be necessary, however, to observe the tacit agreement you spoke of. I have certainly no recollection of such a past life as that you picture. As for the facts around me, I am both willing and anxious to become acquainted with them."