The Eternal Adam and other stories

by Jules Vernes

  Thus everything had become calm again; the old existence had been resumed by men and beasts, beasts and plants; even by the tower of Oudenarde gate, which the explosion – these explosions are sometimes astonishing – had set upright again!

  And from that time never a word was spoken more loudly than another, never a discussion took place in the town of Quiquendone. There were no more politics, no more clubs, no more trials, no more policemen! The post of the Commissary Passauf became once more a sinecure, and if his salary was not reduced, it was because the burgomaster and the counsellor could not make up their minds to decide upon it.

  From time to time, indeed, Passauf flitted, without anyone suspecting it, through the dreams of the inconsolable Tatanémance.

  As for Frantz’s rival, he generously abandoned the charming Suzel to her lover, who hastened to wed her five or six years after these events.

  And as for Madame Van Tricasse, she died ten years later, at the proper time, and the Burgomaster married Mademoiselle Pélagie Van Tricasse, his cousin, under excellent conditions – for the happy mortal who should succeed him.

  17

  In which Doctor Ox’s theory is explained

  What, then, had this mysterious Doctor Ox done? Tried a fantastic experiment, – nothing more.

  After having laid down his gas-pipes, he had saturated, first the public buildings, then the private dwellings, finally the streets of Quiquendone, with pure oxygen, without letting in the least atom of hydrogen.

  This gas, tasteless and odourless, spread in generous quantity through the atmosphere, causes, when it is breathed, serious agitation to the human organism. One who lives in an air saturated with oxygen grows excited, frantic, burns!

  You scarcely return to the ordinary atmosphere before you return to your usual state. For instance, the counsellor and the burgomaster at the top of the belfry were themselves again, as the oxygen is kept, by its weight, in the lower strata of the air.

  But one who lives under such conditions, breathing this gas which transforms the body physiologically as well as the soul, dies speedily, like a madman.

  It was fortunate, then, for the Quiquendonians, that a providential explosion put an end to this dangerous experiment, and abolished Doctor Ox’s gas-works.

  To conclude: are virtue, courage, talent, wit, imagination, – are all these qualities or faculties only a question of oxygen?

  Such is Doctor Ox’s theory; but we are not bound to accept it, and for ourselves we utterly reject it, in spite of the curious experiment of which the worthy old town of Quiquendone was the theatre.

  An Ideal City

  A public lecture delivered by Jules Verne, Director, on 12th December 1875

  Ladies and gentlemen,

  Will you permit me to neglect all the duties of a Director of the Academy of Amiens presiding at a public session, by replacing the usual lecture by an account of an adventure which happened to myself? I make my apologies in advance, not only to my colleagues, whose goodwill to me has never been lacking, but to you, ladies and gentlemen, for being about to hear something you did not expect.

  I was present, towards the beginning of last month, at the prize-giving day at the lycée. There, without leaving my armchair, and guided by one of our colleagues, I made a tour of ancient Amiens. Of this excursion across the little industrial Venice formed north of the town by the eleven streams of the Seine, I retain only pleasant memories. I went home, I dined, I went to bed, I fell asleep.

  Nothing out of the way in that, and quite likely on that day all the virtuous people in the town did the same, as it’s the proper thing to do.

  I usually get up early. But for some reason I cannot explain I did not wake up till quite late next day. The dawn had forestalled me. I must have slept eleven hours at least! What was the reason of this? I must have taken a sleeping-draught. Never have I closed my eyes during any official lecture whatever!

  Whatever the reason, when I got up the sun had already crossed the meridian. I opened my window. It was fine weather. I’d thought it would be Wednesday!... It was obviously Sunday, for the boulevards were encumbered by a crowd of strollers. I dressed myself, I breakfasted in a trice and I went out.

  All that day, ladies and gentlemen, to recall one of the first Napoleon’s rare jokes, I was to ‘march from surprise to surprise’.

  You can judge for yourself.

  Scarcely had I set foot on the pavement than I was assailed by a crowd of urchins who shouted,

  ‘Competition programme! Fifteen centimes! Who wants a programme?’

  ‘Me,‘ I replied, without overmuch reflection that this expense had been rather thoughtless. On the previous evening I had indeed paid into the bank all my loose cash, and the price might risk ruining me.

  ‘Well,’ I asked one of the urchins. ‘What’s it all about?’

  ‘The regional competition, my prince!’ came the reply. ‘It ends today.‘ Whereupon they all scampered off.

  But what was this competition? If my memory didn’t betray me, it had been over two months ago! The urchin must have been playing me a trick.

  All the same, I took things philosophically, and went on my way.

  At the corner of the Rue Mercier, what was my surprise when I saw it stretching on out of sight! I could see a long line of houses, of which the furthest vanished over a rise in the ground. Could I be at Rome? Had a new suburb grown up, like a mushroom, with its mansions and churches, and that in the space of a single night?

  It must be so, for I saw a bus, yes a bus! – line F, to Notre Dame aux Reservoirs, going up the streets loaded with travellers!

  I went on towards the bridge. A train passed me, going quite slowly. The driver rent the air with his whistle, and blew off steam with a deafening roar.

  Did my eyes deceive me. but I fancied the carriages were of American type, with gangways to allow the travellers to go from one end of the train to the other! I tried to read the company’s initials painted on the carriages, but instead of the ‘N’ of the Nord line, I saw the ‘P’ and the ‘F’ of Picardy and Flanders. What did this mean? Had the little company absorbed the big one, by any chance? Were we now going to have the carriages heated, even when it was cold in October, against all the company’s rules? Were we going to have the compartments properly dusted? Were we going to be able to get return tickets, in fine weather, between Amiens and Paris?

  Such were the first advantages I could imagine of the absorption of the Nord line by the P and F. But I could not think out anything so wildly improbable! I hurried on to the end of the bridge.

  Here there had always been a beggar with a white beard who used to take off his hat fifty times a minute. But he wasn’t there!

  I could have imagined anything but that, ladies and gentlemen, for he’d always seemed part of the bridge. Oh, why wasn’t he there now, in his usual place? Two stone stairways had replaced the goat-paths which yesterday had led down to the gardens, and with the crowds who were going up and down, he’d have reaped a harvest!

  The coin I’d meant to give him fell out of my hand. As it touched the ground it jingled, as if it had hit something hard and not the soft earth of the boulevard.

  I looked down. A pavement, lined with slabs of porphyry, ran right along it.

  What a change! So this corner of Amiens no longer deserved its reputation as the ‘little Lutece’?[i]

  What! you could now walk, even in the rain, without slipping in up to the ankles? You didn’t have to paddle in that clayey mud which the natives so much detested?

  Yes! It was with delight that I trod on that municipal pavement, wondering, ladies and gentlemen, if, thanks to some new revolution, the town mayors were nominated, since yesterday, by the Minister of Public Works.

  And that was not all! That day the boulevards had been watered at a well-chosen hour – not too early, not too late – which didn’t allow the dust to fly or the water to spread, just as the crowds were thickening! And these pathways, tarred like those of the Cha
mps Elysées in Paris, were pleasant to walk upon! And there were double seats, with backs, between all the trees! And these seats were not dirtied by the thoughtlessness of the children and the carelessness of their nurses. And at every ten paces, bronze candelabras bore their elegant lanterns even among the leaves of the limes and the chestnut trees.

  ‘Lord!’ I exclaimed. ‘If these lovely walks are as well lighted as they’re kept up, if stars of the first magnitude are now shining in place of those yellowish glimmers of gas we used to have, then all is for the best in the best of possible towns!’

  There was an enormous crowd on the boulevards. Splendid coaches rolled along the highway. I could scarcely get by. But – and this was strange, I could recognise among these magistrates, these merchants, these lawyers, these wealthy people, nobody whom I had had the pleasure of meeting at the music festivals; nobody among these officers, who were no longer of the 72nd regiment but of the 324th, wearing a new pattern of shako; nobody among these lovely ladies seated, so completely carefree, on armchairs with elastic seats.

  And now who were these marvellous creatures who were showing off upon the footpaths, exhibiting, by the varieties of their toilette, the latest modes I’d seen in Paris? What bunches of artificial flowers, resembling real ones, and placed, maybe a little low, at the waist! What long trains, mounted on tiny metal wheels which murmured so pleasantly over the sand! What hats, with tangled lianas, arborescent plants, tropical birds, snakes and jaguars in miniature, of which even a Brazilian jungle would hardly give an idea! What hair-dos, so embarrassingly large and so heavy that they had to be supported on a little wicker cage decorated, however, in irreproachable taste! What hats, with such combinations of folds, ribbons and lace, that they’d be harder to put together than Poland herself![ii]

  I stood there, unable to move! They passed in front of me like something out of Fairyland. I could see that there were no young men over eighteen years old, nor girls over sixteen. Nothing but married couples, affectionately linking their arms together, and a swarm of children such as had never been seen since the population began to multiply at the command of the Most High!

  ‘Lord,’ I exclaimed again. ‘If children can console one for anything then Amiens must be the city of consolations!’

  Suddenly strange sounds were heard. Trumpets sounded. I went to the worm-eaten platform which from time immemorial has trembled beneath the feet of the masters of music.

  In its place there now rose an elegant pavilion, crowned with a light verandah, all very charming. At its foot spread broad terraces, leading down to the boulevard and to the gardens in the rear. The basement was occupied by a splendid café of ultramodern luxury. I rubbed my eyes, wondering if, during the short space of a night, it had risen at the wave of a magic wand.

  But I could no longer seek an explanation of inexplicable facts, which seemed to belong to the world of fantasy. The band of the 324th was playing a piece which did not seem human – or, for that matter, celestial either! Here everything had changed, too! Nothing musical in these phrases. No melody, no time, no harmony! The quintessence of Wagner? The algebra of sound? The triumph of discord! An effort like that of instruments being tuned in an orchestra, before the curtain rises!

  Around me, the strollers, now grouped together, were applauding in a style which I’d seen only at gymnastic displays.

  ‘But it’s the music of the future?’ I exclaimed in spite of myself. ‘Have I left my own time?’

  Certainly this seemed likely, for on approaching the notice which gave the names of the pieces, I read this bewildering title:

  ‘No. 1: Reverie in a minor key on the Square on the hypotenuse!’

  I began to get seriously uneasy. Had I gone mad? If I hadn’t, wasn’t I going to? I hastened away, my ears ringing. I needed air, space, the desert and its absolute silence! Longueville Place wasn’t far away. I hurried off to this miniature Sahara! I ran...

  It was an oasis. Great trees cast a refreshing shade. A carpet of grass extended beneath the clumps of flowers. The air was fragrant. A pretty little stream murmured through the greenery. The thirsty naiad of old now flowed with clear water. Without its overflows carefully controlled, its basin would certainly have flooded the town. It was neither fairy water, spun glass nor painted gauze. No! It was indeed the compound of hydrogen and oxygen, fresh drinkable water, and in it swarmed multitudes of tiny fish, which, only yesterday, would not have been able to live in it for an hour! I moistened my lips with this water, which hitherto had defied all analysis. If it had been sweetened, ladies and gentlemen, in my state of excitement I should have found this quite natural!

  I threw a last glance at this clear naiad, as one might look at something phenomenal, and set off towards the Rue des Rabuissons, wondering if it were still in existence.

  And there, on the left, rose a great building of hexagonal form with a fine entrance. It was at once a circus and a concert-hall, large enough to enable a dozen orchestras – including the Municipal Band of the Volunteer Firemen – to play together.

  In that room a vast crowd were applauding enough to make it collapse. And outside was a long queue, down which spread waves of enthusiasm from within. At the door appeared gigantic notices, bearing this name in colossal letters:

  PIANOWSKI

  Pianist to the Emperor of the Sandwich Islands

  I know neither of that emperor nor of his virtuoso in ordinary.

  ‘And when did Pianowski come?’ I asked a dilettante, recognisable by the extraordinary development of his ears.

  ‘He didn’t come.’ The native looked at me rather surprised.

  ‘Then when will he come?’

  ‘He isn’t coming,’ the dilettante replied. And this time he had an air of saying, ‘But you, where did you come from?’

  ‘But if he isn’t coming, when will he give this concert?’

  ‘He’s giving it now. ‘

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes, here, in Amiens, and at the same time in London, Vienna, Rome, St Petersburg, and Pekin!’

  Well,’ I thought, ‘all these people are mad! Have they, by any chance, let loose the inmates of the Clermont Mental home?’

  ‘Sir,’ I continued.

  ‘But, sir,’ the dilettante replied – shrugging his shoulders. ‘Just read the notice! You’ll see that this is an electrical concert!’

  I read the notice, and indeed at that very moment the famous ivory-pounder was playing in Paris; but by means of electric wires his instrument was linked up with the pianos of London, Vienna, Rome, St Petersburg, and Pekin. So, whenever he struck a note, the identical note resounded on the strings of these distant pianos, the keys being instantaneously depressed by the electric current!

  I wanted to go into the hall. It was impossible! Well, I don’t know if the concert was electric, but I could certainly take my oath that the spectators were electrified.

  No, no, I could not be in Amiens! It was not in this wise matter-of-fact city that such things happened! I wanted to be clear about this, so I hurried along down what must be the Rue des Rabuissons.

  Was the Library still there? Yes, and in the middle of the courtyard the marble statue threatening all the passers-by who didn’t know their grammar!

  And the Musée? It was there! With its crowned ‘N’ which still obstinately appeared beneath the municipal attempts to scrape it off.

  And the abode of the General Council? Yes, with its monumental door through which my colleagues and I were accustomed to pass on the second and fourth Fridays of every month.

  And that of the Prefecture? Yes, with its tricolour flag gnawed by the winds of the Somme Valley as if it had been to the front with the gallant 324th!

  I could recognise them! But how they’d altered! The street had a spacious air of being a second Boulevard Haussmann! I was uncertain, I did not know what to believe... But at the Place Périgord doubt was no longer possible.

  A sort of flood seemed to have invaded it. Water was spurting from the pavi
ng stones as though some artesian well had instantaneously opened beneath it.

  ‘The town mains!’ I exclaimed. ‘The town mains which burst here every year with mathematical regularity! Yes, I must be in Amiens, at the very heart of the old Samarobrive!’

  But then what had happened since yesterday? Whom could I ask? I didn’t know anyone! I was like a stranger. But it was impossible that here, in the Rue Trois Cailloux I shouldn’t find someone to talk to!

  I went up the Rue Trois Cailloux towards the station. But —

  What was this I saw?

  On the left a magnificent theatre, set apart from the adjoining houses, with a broad façade of that polychromatic architecture now so unfortunately come into fashion. A peristyle, comfortably arranged, giving access to stairs which led up to the hall. No more of those inconvenient barriers, of those narrow labyrinthine corridors which last night had been only big enough to hold a public, alas too few! As for the old room, it had vanished, and its debris had no doubt been sold on the secondhand market like relics of the stone age!

  Then, as I turned my back on the theatre, on the corner of the Rue des Corps-nuds-sans-tête, a dazzling emporium met my eyes. Shop-front in carved wood, Venetian glass protecting a splendid window-display, expensive trinkets in copper or enamel, tapestry, porcelain which looked quite modern, although it was exhibited there like the products of the most venerable antiquity. This store was a real museum, with a Flemish cleanness, without a single spider’s web in its windows, without a single grain of dust on its floor. Along the façade, on a plate of black marble, in lapidary letters, extended the name of a famous second-hand shopkeeper of Amiens, a name quite inconsistent with his usual line of commerce, which consists of selling broken flower-pots!

  A few symptoms of madness began to arise in my brain. I could not bear to see more of this. I took to flight. I went across the Place St Denis. It was ornamented with two dazzling fountains, and its age-old trees threw their shadows on a plaque green with the patina of time.