# The Diothas, or, A Far Look Ahead/Chapter 32

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When Utis retired with me to my quarters, we held a long conversation in regard to the events of the day, which were to him no less unexpected and pleasing than to myself.
"I have hitherto belonged to those who regard the doctrine of varana rather as an ingenious hypothesis, unproved, though attractive, than as a matter of serious belief. But now, I must confess, it affords the most plausible explanation of some points in your case that otherwise are utterly bewildering. For you, at all events, it is the most satisfactory solution of your perplexities; and so, I have no doubt, it will prove to your mother."
"Have you heard from her lately?" inquired I.
"Not for three days past," was the reply. "She then, toward the end of a conversation in which she expressed her lively satisfaction arising from the account I was enabled to send in regard to you, announced that she had completed her arrangements, and would embark next morning for Valparaiso, the first stage of her journey hither."
"How long will the voyage take?"
​"Let me see," was the response, as he took down a chart: "the distance is about forty-four hundred miles. That can easily be accomplished in four days."
"In another day, then," said I eagerly, "I shall be able to communicate with her and my sister?"
"Perhaps it may be possible to communicate with them much sooner than that," said he, smiling at my eagerness. The fact is, that hitherto I had rather dreaded the moment when I should he obliged to enter into communication with these relatives of the Ismar Thiusen with whom I had in such an inexplicable manner become identified. The events of the day, however, had produced an entire revulsion of feeling. I now earnestly desired what before I had shrunk from. Meanwhile, without further explanation, Utis had risen, placed himself before the telephone, and was evidently making some inquiry.
"I have made inquiry at Valparaiso," he explained, on returning to the veranda, "whether the electric packet has yet reached Ualdoth." Here he proceeded to point out to me on the chart a small island about sixteen hundred miles west of Valparaiso. He had begun to explain that this was the usual stopping-place for the packet from Maoria, when a summons called him to the telephone. After the exchange of a few words, he returned, saying,—
"We are almost too late: the packet leaves Ualdoth in less than half an hour. I have given directions, however, to make connection with the ship, and to inform your mother. You will probably have time for a quarter of an hour of conversation, unless she has retired for the night. That, however, is unlikely; since the sun sets there about two hours later than here."
​We had, meanwhile, taken our position beside the instrument. Scarcely had he ceased speaking when a voice —that voice associated in my mind since infancy with all that is tender and good and pure—came vibrating over the far-extending wires from that distant island in the Pacific. The tone of anxiety I could read in those dear, familiar accents thrilled me with compunction for what now seemed my selfish neglect; while, at the same time, I experienced a sort of mysterious awe, as if listening to a voice from beyond the grave. Utis, seeing my agitation, first sent a few words of preparation and explanation, then withdrew.
The allotted quarter of an hour flew all too quickly. The last few words were in my sister's voice, and ceased abruptly in the midst of a sentence, from which I, and correctly as it seems, inferred that the wires had been disconnected. The chief reason, indeed, for the delay of two hours at Ualdoth was, as Utis explained, to enable passengers to communicate with their friends by telephone. To people accustomed to almost instantaneous communication with every part of the world, a three-days' interruption of intercourse was almost as serious a deprivation as to us would be a separation from postal facilities for three months. Here there was no occasion for the passengers to leave the ship. Connection once established with the submarine cable, intercourse with friends could be maintained till the moment when it became necessary to disconnect, on the voyage being resumed.
The four early working-hours of the following morning were devoted by my host and me to the various labors necessary for the maintenance of the garden, and other ​surroundings of the house, in their customary high condition of neatness. On my expressing some surprise at the comparative absence of weeds, Utis explained,—
"By care continued through long ages, mankind have succeeded in extirpating the most noxious weeds. Of that you have seen an example in the case of the thistle. It makes an enormous difference in the amount of labor requisite for cultivation."
On a subsequent occasion, when expressing some apprehension in respect to the probable appearance of the mosquito to interfere with our enjoyment of the summer evenings, he had been somewhat amused at the idea. It was much as if some visitor among us from the Orient should take it for granted that fleas and similar insects are as naturally to be expected as denizens of our sleeping apartments, as they are in those of his native land. The appearance of mosquitoes in a district would have been regarded as reflecting quite as great discredit on the population, as would among us the appearance of the above-mentioned denizens in a house.
"We regard them as a not unuseful little pest," said he; "since they indicate the existence of some undesirable sanitary conditions, that must be discovered and put an end to."
On descending to breakfast, I found that Reva had returned home, summoned by her father, who announced the reported approach of a great storm from the West.
"I wish I had known this earlier," remarked Utis.
"We need not have worked quite so vigorously as we did, seeing that we have a day of vigorous exertion before us."
​It was even so. The storm-signals were out, and every male inhabitant was expected to turn out and aid in saving the splendid crop of wheat with which the district was covered. It was the year following the sheep-pasturing; and, accordingly, the whole land was under wheat. Duly instructed by Utis, I found no difficulty in guiding the machine committed to my care. It was, in fact, as easy to manage as a horse-rake. All that day we labored, with an intermission of an hour in the midst of the day. Little was heard but the few words of direction from the overseers of the work, and the sharp click of the machines that, following in due order, cut, thrashed, and winnowed the grain. This, without being bagged, was conveyed at once to the elevator. Other machines cut up the straw into inch lengths, so as to admit of its being stowed away in less bulk, it being a valued basis for many manufactures.
Ere darkness came on, the land had been stripped of its golden covering as by magic; and all returned home, weary, indeed, but conscious of having performed a good day's work. Little was said during the belated meal, except in reference to the approaching storm, of whose violence accounts were already coming in.
"It is fortunate," said Utis, "that the ship conveying your mother and sister is not in its track. This storm appears to have suddenly originated in the North Pacific, and, from what Olay states of its ravages in the neighborhood where he now is, must be of unusual violence."
In my selfishness, I am afraid I was more concerned by the obstacle the storm opposed to my paying a visit, however brief, to the house of Hulmar Edial. Even tele​phonic communication with there was temporarily cut off. During such storms as that now approaching, it was considered safest to disconnect, for a while, all the wires entering the house.
We did not, after all, lie in the direct path of the storm. A few miles farther north, almost every tree was prostrated throughout the district; while we escaped with comparatively slight damage, though the storm was supposed to be the severest that had occurred for several generations. This evening is signalized in my memory, however, chiefly by a peculiar adventure that occurred to me.
During the height of the storm, I had occasion to go to my room for a certain book. Just as I closed the door to return, there came a blinding flash of lightning, followed by a crash of thunder that seemed to make the building shake to its foundation. At the same moment the electric light that illumined the corridor gave a fitful flash, then left me in total darkness. Confused, I took the wrong direction, going right on instead of to the left. Before traversing the whole corridor, I knew I had made a mistake.
While pausing, trying to orient myself, by the flash that seemed to issue from it I became aware of a half-open door just facing me. I entered. By looking from the window I might gain some idea of where I was. I found myself in a lofty circular apartment, of fair size, and lighted by a round window in the midst of the vaulted roof. This I could see by the now almost incessant glare of lightning. Ceiling, floor, and walls were cased in marble. Of marble, also, were the rows of carved consoles that occupied the walls from ceiling to floor. On ​each console stood an urn of beautiful but severe design. The materials were various: many were of marble of different kinds, the majority of some transparent material. As the thunder rolled above my head, and the lightning-gleam reflected from the polished surfaces revealed the medallions cut in relief, I began to understand, and was filled with a solemn awe.
With some difficulty I found my way back to the parlor, where Utis had just succeeded in restoring the working of the electric light, which appeared to have been paralyzed in some way by the action of the storm. When the ladies had retired. I told Utis of what I had seen. He simply remarked,—
"Though that is called the 'Guest-Chamber,' I ought not to have left you to stumble on it by yourself, and that, too. under such peculiar surroundings. It must have been left open by some chance to-day."
He then proceeded to explain to me their manner of disposing of the dead. For nearly seventy centuries cremation had been practically the only method in use, it having more and more commended itself to the common sense of mankind. "Instead of permitting the remains of our beloved dead to return, as inevitably they must, sooner or later, to their original elements, by a slow and hideous process, we restore by far the greater part to nature by the rapid action of fire, the type of purifying energy. Instead of hiding them away in nooks shunned by all, in recesses where imagination shuns to dwell, we carefully preserve what is practically indestructible of their frames in an honored place in the homes they once loved and brightened. As you must have carried away an un​favorable impression of the place from the manner of your visit, let us return there."
By this time the storm had ceased, except an occasional subdued rumble in the distance. He led the way in silence to the marble chamber, and turned on the subdued radiance of an electric light.
"Here," said he, "are the ashes of a hundred and twenty generations. We call it the 'Guest-Chamber;' because we enter the house as the guests of our parents, and finally remain here as the guests of our children.
"Each of these urns contains all that remains of a family,—husband and wife, and unmarried children. An occasional second son may be absent, having made himself a home elsewhere; and, of course, all the married daughters of the house, who repose in the guest-chambers of the families into which they married."
I gazed around me with awe. Never had human existence seemed to me so transitory. Yet here the aspect of death was nothing horrible, but something inexpressibly solemn. Near the centre of the floor stood a marble table. Under it was the safe in which were preserved the records of the family, and those portraits already referred to. On the table lay a strongly bound volume.
"With the exception of the last three," continued my host, "all these are your ancestors as well as mine. They are so through Osna Diotha, whose father belonged to a line that has frequently intermarried with our house."
On hearing this I began to examine the portraits on the medallions with even greater interest. The medallions each contained the portrait of husband and wife, always executed during life, and usually soon after their ​marriage. Thus, on the urn that Utis, according to custom, had provided for himself some years before, were exquisitely cut portraits of himself and Ulmene. On the reverse were deeply cut their names, the dates of their respective births, that of their marriage: spaces still vacant were destined for the final dates.
"You see," said Utis, pointing with a grave smile to the long series of unoccupied consoles, about half the number, "there is yet room for many generations. With the life-story of each of those who have gone before me, I am fairly familiar. But in certain moods I love to sit here and speculate upon the character and history of those destined to fill these vacant places. Are they as yet mere nothings? or, as the adherents of the varana believe, are they already on earth, working through their longenduring probation? The theory has charms," said he thoughtfully, as we left the apartment; "and I would fain believe it."