# The Diothas, or, A Far Look Ahead/Chapter 9

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The breakfast to which we sat down it is not necessary to characterize more fully than by saying that it fairly matched the dinner of the previous evening, Except in the absence of wines, the repast reminded me of an artistically prepared déjeuner à la fourchette where quality rather than quantity was the aim.
The ladies, bright-eyed and cheerful from exercise, and rosy from the morning bath, lent sparkle to the conversation. No one, seeing their fresh and elegant costumes, would have imagined them to have spent three active hours in the labors of a factory-hand. Nor must it be thought that these labors had been performed in a perfunctory manner. Whatever these people did, they did with all their might. The labor of the early morning was entered into with the zest inspired among us by athletic exercises alone. Even the children, so well bred and neat, had been three hours already out of bed, attending to certain small household duties appropriate to their age.
I was somewhat mystified, during breakfast, by hearing strains of magnificent music, which proceeded evidently from a full orchestra. At times the sound appeared to ​issue from the next apartment: again they would sound as if from afar. In each case the distance was exactly that from which the passage was heard to the greatest advantage.
The meal concluded, we were in no haste to rise from table. The character of the music now changed. The instruments took a subordinate part, as the background to a grand chorus of multitudinous voices, or as the subdued accompaniment to solos, duets, or trios, executed by voices of power and compass beyond all it had, till then, been my fortune to hear. During the pauses in the performance, the ladies discussed both music and performers in a manner that showed, not only a sound musical training, but also rare artistic appreciation.
"Presently you shall hear Ulmene's piece," said Ialma to me during one of these pauses.
Before I had time to inquire whether by this she meant a favorite piece of her sister's, or an original composition by her, the doubt was solved by the opening of the piece in question. During the progress of the music, which, I am ashamed to confess, was rather beyond me, Ulmene's rapt look was that of the artist intent for errors in execution. To the rest, the strain was evidently familiar and dear. To me the expression of affectionate pride on the faces of husband, sister, and children was a study more interesting than the music. This piece was the finale; or, rather, as I afterwards learned, the telephone was shut off that had conveyed the sound from a distance.
"We prefer our music in the morning," said Utis, when we were conversing on the subject. "It fills up agreeably the leisure that ought to be enjoyed after a ​hearty meal. That was, surely, a strange custom in your period, of spending the evening in closely packed, badly ventilated halls."
"It was a matter of necessity rather than choice," I replied. "If we wanted music, we had to go where it was to be heard. Even princes could not afford such music at their breakfasts. But one thing especially surprises me. How do you succeed in obtaining concerts at that early hour? Are your artists so self-sacrificing as to regard breakfast of no importance in comparison with the public pleasure?"
"The telephone is the magician," said Utis. "The concert you heard this morning was performed in a great city of Central Europe, at an hour there belonging to the afternoon. Each continent has its own great musical centre, toward which gravitates whatever arises of genius, talent, or vocal endowment. In that city are produced musical performances on a grand scale. By means of the telephone, these are reproduced at the ends of the earth, in the homes of all willing to pay a small annual sum for the privilege. A whole continent, at times all the continents, will thus, at the same moment, sit in judgment on a new piece or a new singer."
Breakfast over, and every thing restored to proper order, the children departed for school; and, in the ordinary course, we should have separated, each to his or her favorite pursuit. But, mindful of his promise, Utis took me under his charge.
Our heads protected by a sort of sun-helmet, we issued forth to view the fields. What first drew my attention in the landscape was the general absence of fences, pasture, ​or masses of woodland. Long lines of trees marked the roads. Near these, at frequent intervals, a glimpse of masonry, from amid a clump of aged trees, indicated the position of a homestead.
Land was far too valuable to be left under forest. But the borders of all roads were planted with approved varieties of trees. These both afforded a pleasant shade to the roads, and by the cutting down of every thirtieth tree, or so, each year, yielded a sufficient supply of timber for the few purposes to which it was applied. The trees surrounding the homesteads were, of course, sacred from the axe, and, being usually of long-lived species, were often of venerable antiquity, counting their years, not by centuries, but by chiliads. Such trees, associated with far-extending family traditions, were regarded with feelings of affection difficult for us to conceive.
Such a tree was a venerable sequoia, which it was my privilege to see in the region bordering on where once was a great lake known as Erie. This tree, proved by documentary evidence to be over forty-two centuries old, was said to be the immediate offspring of a tree that had attained an almost equal antiquity. This hoary survivor from a distant past had seen pass away more than a hundred and seventy generations, and was supposed to be the oldest living organism on the face of the globe. It stood near the ancient homestead of the Huarvils, a family justly proud of its ability to trace its descent from two presidents of the earliest ages of the republic, both victims of malignant passions, both martyrs to duty.
I was filled with surprise to see the high state of cultivation to which had been brought the whole country ​around where Utis had his home. Yet this was nothing exceptional. Everywhere this same state of things was to be seen. Not a waste corner, not a weed, was visible. Between field and garden there was no distinction, except in the nature of the crop. The extensive areas under one crop reminded me somewhat of what I had seen in some Western States.
"We need no fences," said Utis, in reply to an observa- tion of mine; "since there are no cattle to keep, either out or in."
"No cattle!" I exclaimed. "Whence, then, that rich milk, that excellent beef-steak, that made its appearance on the breakfast-table this morning?"
"Our milk," replied Utis, "is an artificial product pre- pared from maize: so, to a large extent, is our beef, as you call it, and similar articles of food."
"Explain," said I, in some amazement.
"There is nothing very wonderful about the matter," was the reply, "if you keep in mind that chemistry has made some progress since the nineteenth century. Even then, in the very infancy of their science, chemists had succeeded in preparing in the laboratory several valuable substances, previously derived, at greater cost, from field- crops. That was only the beginning of such discoveries. Chemistry long ago ceased to be an experimental art. It is now a strictly deductive science, in which, by the proper manipulation of symbols and formulas, interesting or important discoveries may be made without the necessity of handling a re-agent or an instrument. Our experts are able, not only to imitate any definite compound known to exist in nature, but even to invent others, some of the greatest value.
​"We could—it has been done—compound food directly from mineral substances. That, however, is difficult and costly. We prefer to let nature do most of the work to our hand. From the vegetable world we obtain certain stock compounds, from which, by suitable modifications, we form all we need. From maize alone, as a basis, every variety of food could be prepared. But mainly on account of the advantage of a rotation of crops, we raise, besides, wheat, barley, oats, potatoes, and beets, and other crops in smaller quantities. In some tropical countries, bananas, another important basis, are raised in enormous quantities. Especially in the valley of the Amazon, one of the most fertile regions of the globe, and now thickly populated, are grown a variety of plants, from which are extracted our most exquisite flavors."
This information was given, not altogether, but at intervals, while we traversed the garden and orchard. In these were found all the fruits now grown in temperate climates, and many that I failed to recognize. As for flowers, there did not seem to be a greater variety than at present, but better choice.
"Besides cats and dogs, these are the only domestic animals usually kept among us," said Utis, as we arrived at an extensive enclosure surrounded by a lofty wire netting, containing a variety of domestic fowl.
On making some remark in regard to the peculiarities of the breed, I learned that these peculiarities arose from long-continued selection with a view to laying properties alone. Eggs and fish were the only animal products used as food. Sheep were raised, in like manner, solely for the sake of their fleece. The breed, accordingly, would not, among us, create great demand for their mutton.
​These sheep were kept in immense flocks, the manner of herding them presenting an interesting example of that reversion to primitive customs which I had so frequently to remark. At intervals of a few years, it had been found advantageous to allow the land to rest from constant cropping. By general agreement, a whole region—the northern part of the Atlantic slope, for exanple—would have its entire area of arable land put under grass for a year. To the enormous grazing-ground thus provided would be driven the millions of sheep pastured the preceding year on the contiguous region. Beginning at one extremity of the region, the countless flocks would gradually pass on, feeding their way, toward the next region. In this way the grazing-area would gradually shift from the Pacific to the Atlantic coast, and thence return by another course. The soil, rested and enriched, is ploughed over immediately after the passage of the last flock.
"Our system of cultivation is peculiar," said my host, as we seated ourselves in the shade of a linden, to watch. the fowl pick up the food that had just been scattered. before them. The amount of land held by each family is small,—about ten acres, perhaps. By the labors of ages, the soil has been enriched and thoroughly pulverized, besides being completely underlaid with pipes for drainage and for irrigation.
"The total absence of fences makes it possible, however, to perform all the operations of agriculture on a grand scale. It is usual for some one that makes farming his special business, and possesses the necessary plant for, say, a thousand acres, to take for a year the ​land of some hundred adjacent families. He performs the ordinary work on the land by means of bis own machinery and his own employees. But, in accordance with long-standing custom, he is entitled, on pressing occasion, to call on all the able-bodied proprietors to aid in saving the harvest. Even the women voluntarily turn out, on very urgent occasions, when warning of a rapidly approaching storm comes at a critical time."
"But," said I, "since you have no cattle, whence do you obtain your fertilizers?"
"By allowing nothing to go to waste," was the reply.
"Our sewage, instead of poisoning rivers, is made to fertilize the land. The rocks, too, and the ocean, are made to render aid. But our most effectual means of insuring fertility is a thorough system of irrigation. Not a drop of water, for example, is allowed to run to waste from our numerous bath-rooms. It all runs to a reservoir, whence, by appropriate means, it is distributed over the soil. But come," said he, rising. "I have something interesting to show you."
In obedience to this summons, I followed to a glass-framed shed near the house. There, beside the curricle on which we had come the day before, stood another, all resplendent in the unsoiled gloss of novelty. Learning that this vehicle had been procured for me, in accordance with directions from home, I examined it with all the keen interest a boy would display on coming to possess his first bicycle. As I moved it to and fro over the smooth floor,—it moved at a mere touch,—Utis anticipated my wish by proposing a trial on the road.
"It seems to be seated for only one," said I. "But will it be safe for a novice to venture alone?"
​"This is the way to expand the seat," was the reply. "I will steer till we reach the main road."
Ere we reached there, I had mastered the few simple motions that controlled the machine. Then, taking the tiller, I put my metallic steed to its paces. Presently, seeing me sufficiently master of the machine, Utis requested me to set him down at a house where he had some business. As he desired me to call again in about an hour, I reminded him that I had no watch. He then drew my attention to three small dials inserted near the foot-rest. One was the dial of a cyclometer, recording the distance run; a second was a watch-dial, divided as already explained; on a third, an index, moving like that of a steam-gauge, indicated the rate of speed at any moment.
Never shall I forget the exhilaration of that ride! At a rate of speed such as can be maintained by a horse for a brief period only, on I dashed without let or pause. Houses and trees flew past: the wind almost prevented breathing. Yet no panting, foaming steed, no compunetuous fears for a noble and valuable animal. Onward sped my silent steed, with unabated force, till the dial showed that half my time was expired.
On my return, I had reached within a mile or two of where I expected to find Utis, when I observed, some distance ahead, a curricle standing on the turnout of the road. The rider's back was toward me, but her stooping position—by this time I had recognized the dress as that of a young girl—showed her to be busied at something beneath the body of the vehicle.
I was in some doubt as to what would be proper for ​me to do, to offer assistance, or pass on, when the young lady, rising to an erect position, and turning toward me, revealed the face of Reva Diotha. The stooping position from which she had just risen had heightened the color of her complexion, and somewhat disordered her abundant locks. A tiny smudge on her chin rather added piquancy to her beauty, drawing attention, as it did, to the loveliest of dimples. The monkey-wrench in her hand showed how she had been occupied, and indicated the origin of the above-mentioned mark. Throwing back her hair over her shoulder, she frankly expressed her delight at my opportune arrival.
"You come at a good time. I dismounted to tighten this screw,"—as she spoke she gave a slight tap with the wrench,—"and was so awkward as to draw off the head. With your aid I can repair it in half the time."
By this time I was standing beside her, regarding the damaged machine with all the wisdom I could muster at the moment. Somewhat alarmed at the confidence thus expressed of my proving useful in a matter of which I felt entirely ignorant, I inquired as to whether the machine could not work at all till this repair was effected.
"I might venture on five or six miles an hour. The difficulty is, that I have only an hour in which to reach the station, where I have promised to meet a friend."
"Why might I not take you down?" said I, quite forgetting Utis in my eagerness.
"I have not yet bound up my hair," was the reply, accompanied by a faint blush.
The answer was somewhat enigmatical. Yet, though not without a glimpse of its meaning, I boldly went on,—
​"Why not bind it up, then?"
With an emphatic shake of the head, and a merry laugh, she replied,—
"That might, perhaps, do in Maoria, but not here."
"Surely, there is nothing to prevent your using my machine, and keeping your engagement!" I exclaimed.
"I will take charge of yours meanwhile."
Seeing me very much in earnest in my offer, she gratefully accepted, mounted, waved the usual graceful gesture of farewell, and was soon vanishing in the distance. Utis was naturally surprised to see me appear with this slow-moving exchange for my late mount. Without many questions, however, he set to work, and soon had the vehicle in working order. It was not till we had started on our way home that I recounted my adventure at greater length. For some reason, it seemed to cause him great amusement; and it was with a merry twinkle in his eye that he said,—
"You are, perhaps, not aware that you have made this morning a formal proposal to Reva Diotha."
"What!" I exclaimed, naturally startled by such an unexpected announcement.
"Yon need not look so frightened," he continued.
"She has refused you in due form."
He then went on to explain, that among them it was not customary for a girl to ride out with a bachelor unless betrothed to him. In that case her hair, no longer allowed to hang in unrestrained luxuriance, was braided up, or confined in a net, after the manner of betrothed maidA not unusual way, therefore, for a young man to put a certain momentous question to the maiden of his ​choice, is, for him to offer her a seat in his curricle. If the fair one consents, even by a nod, she is supposed to admit him as a suitor on probation. Her hair is then bound up by the hands of her mother, or nearest kinswoman; and the appearance of the pair in public is the acknowledged sign of the first stage of courtship. A refusal, on the other hand, is delicately conveyed by her saying that she does not like, or does not wish, to bind up her hair.
"Surely, Reva will not think that I am so"—
"Set your mind at rest. She evidently understood your proposal as you meant it, but could not, of course, explain quite freely why she was not at liberty to accept. Perhaps," he added after a pause, "it will be as well not to mention the matter at home. Reva is high-spirited, and might take amiss your exposing her to teasing remarks."