Tài liệu Golf in the Year 2000, or, What we are coming to pdf

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Next —but I think what happened next morning requires a new
chapter.
4.Mounseer, a corruption of Monsieur, is (or was) a derogatory term used by English
speakers to refer to a Frenchman. Originating in British Navy slang, it was in fairly
wide currency in the 19th century. Gibson of course means France when he speaks of
the “land of ‘the darned Mounseer.’”
5
Chapter
2
In a curious position — Discover I have grown a beard — Am nearly
drowned — Mr. Adams, C.I.G.C. — The year 2000 — The certificate —
Get my hair cut — The watch.
When I awoke next morning I felt a curious sensation, viz., “pins and
needles” all over my body, like those in your foot when it goes to sleep. I
felt very stiff, too—in fact, I could not move, and lay wondering what the
matter was.
The room I was in also seemed strange to me. The first thing I noticed
was the roof, which was for all the world like a large white saucer re-
versed. The room, I may mention, was in semi-darkness, as it was only
lighted by a small square window above the door.
Gradually the pricking sensation began to get less, until I could move
my limbs a little. And now, behold —here I was “in a box” and no mis-
take, for I found myself to be lying in what I took to be a sort of coffin. I
began to wonder if this was not a dream, and tried to recall what I had
been doing the night before. I remembered Brown coming in and talking
over our match, and I distinctly remembered going to bed. “Well,” I
thought, “I suppose it’s some joke of Brown’s; but whether it’s time to
laugh or not, I don’t know.”
My next discovery—rather a startling one for a man that had gone to
bed a few hours before cleanshaven—was that I had a beard. And such a
beard! Why, it would have stuffed a dining-room suite with half-a-dozen
sofas in it. My hair, too, as you shall presently learn, looked as if it had
not been cut for a century. And has the reader ever reflected what that
description would imply, if taken literally? Perhaps he has not had the
chance to picture it to himself, whereas I—but never mind. All I need say
is that I lay for several minutes lost in astonishment at the growth of my
beard.
But I soon began to think I had better get up; and the next difficulty
was, how to get out of my box. All my limbs were very stiff, and,
moreover, the lid of the box—or coffin, whichever it was—came up as
6
far as my armpits, leaving my face alone exposed. All I could do was to
try and work my way out by this open part, which I found no easy task.
At last, however, I was out. Sitting down on the top of my former prison,
I gave my legs a stretch. I did feel cramped and sore.
Still wondering as to my whereabouts, I presently thought I would
have a look round, and see what kind of place I was in. I got up and
moved towards the door, which, when I had come within a foot or so,
suddenly and without any warning shot back into the wall. Thus I found
myself at once in a large, handsomely-furnished room. “Well!” I thought
to myself, “whoever has planned this joke has done the thing well, that’s
one comfort!”
Looking round, I saw a huge glass globe half full of water, which
bulged out from one wall of the room, with a raised daïs of white marble
round the outside. It was quite shut in, except for an opening at the side
presumably for getting out and entering at. This suggested the matutinal
tub. « In I got accordingly, and on my grasping a steel rod which
stretched across it, the opening closed, and the whole structure began to
fly round about and backwards and forwards, till I was almost drowned.
After going for about a minute—it seemed hours to me—the churning
process stopped, and the window, if I may call it so, opened. You may be
sure I was not long in getting out, bruised, battered, and half-drowned.
On recovering myself I proceeded to look about for some more seemly
clothing than the night-shirt in which—the place being altogether
strange to me, and my own habiliments invisible—I had been wandering
about until I entered the bath. A wardrobe which stood in one corner
would not be persuaded to open; but, to add to my astonishment, I
presently found what I wanted on a chair. I picked up first a shirt, which
seemed to be made of a sort of silk, very finely woven. This I put on, and
next donned a pair of black knee-breeches—which seemed to be made of
the same material as the shirt, but of stronger texture—and black stock-
ings, also of the same stuff. Thus attired, I approached a toilet table on
which was a large looking-glass, & c. At first sight of my head of hair
and beard I went into roars of laughter. For, I am sure, ten minutes, I
simply stood and held my sides and shouted.
Hearing an exclamation, I turned round and saw standing in an open
doorway—not the one I had myself come in by—the figure of a man,
clad like myself as far as the knee-breeches went, and with a loose sort of
jacket made of the same stuff, buttoned up to the throat. He was very
white, and looked all the more odd because he had not a particle of hair
7
on his face, or his head either, for the matter of that, barring a sort of ton-
sure of sandy-coloured hair round the skull from one ear to the other.
This apparition stood leaning against the side of the door, and gazing
at me for some seconds. He then darted across the room and disap-
peared—only to reappear, however, in a moment, from the anteroom
where I had been lying. The door closed so quickly after him that to my
unaccustomed eyes—which have got used to the sight since—he seemed
for the moment to have vanished.
He now came slowly forward, and, sitting down on a chair, gazed at
me. Never a word did he speak, so I at last broke silence myself.
“Well,” I said, “this is a capital joke as far as it has gone, but I would
like it explained. Where am I, and what’s it all about? I’ve barked my
shins getting out of my bunk” (as, indeed, I had, and no wonder)—“I've
been nearly drowned in that patent bath of yours, and, pray, how do you
account for this?” I added, tugging my beard and looking fiercely at him.
His lips moved in reply; but what he said sounded more like a solilo-
quy than an answer.
“At last, at last! Living, moving, speaking! Just as they said he might
some day! And yet—a man that has been lying seemingly dead for the
last ten years to my knowledge, and goodness only knows for how long
before!”
“He must be a maniac!” I thought to myself; “and this will be their tog-
gery, and that bath affair something for cooling their brains.”
“Ten years!” I said, aloud; “is that all? Say a century while you’re
about it! But would you be so good as to tell me what or whose house
this is?”
“Certainly. It belongs to your humble servant.” And here he handed
me a card, on which was written, “W. Adams, C.I.G.C.”
“Well, Mr. W. Adams, C.I.G.C., I would like to understand to what
happy circumstance I am indebted for becoming your uninvited guest.”
“Sir,” he said, tremulously, “you found yourself, did you not, lying in
a box in that room?” He pointed to the anteroom.
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Well, in that room you have, to my certain knowledge, been lying for
the last ten years,” he went on. “You have been examined periodically by
members of the medical faculty, who have always found a certain
amount of heat in your body, and your heart beating, though faintly.
When I bought this house ten years ago you were lying there, and it was
part of the arrangement that I was not to disturb you, and that I must
have you examined at the usual intervals.”
8
I sat down and looked at him. It was now my turn to be dumb-
foundered. When I had to some extent collected my scattered wits, I said:
“Will you kindly inform me what year this is?” “It is” (and he referred
to a pocket almanac as he spoke) “the twenty-fifth of March, 2000.”
“What!” I cried, “the year 2000? This is rather too steep! What are you
talking about?”
For all answer he jumped up, crying, “The package, the package!” and
rushed into the anteroom. Presently he came back, carrying a long-
shaped envelope.
“This,” he said, “has been lying under your head.”
On the cover was written: “NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL THE
UNHAPPY ALEXANDER J. GlBSON EITHER REVIVES OR EXPIRES.”
It was my mother’s handwriting; but ah! how faded the ink!
“We are now at liberty to open it,” said my companion. And hastily,
with trembling fingers, he did so. Inside was a paper bearing the words:
“This is to certify that Alexander John Gibson fell into a trance on the
night of Thursday, the 24th day of March, 1892. We have done all we
could to revive him, but without success.
A———B—mdash;—
C———D—mdash;—
Signed this 30th day of March, 1892.”
When he had finished reading he looked up.
“A hundred and eight years,” he said, solemnly. “How unheard-of!”
5
6
7
8
9
5.At least since the story of Rip Van Winkle was written, having one’s main charac-
ter fall asleep for a long, long time has been a common literary device for getting him
from one era into another, more future one. It is time travel without need for a time
machine.
6.A coma is the nearest thing to a long sleep that most people have heard about. Co-
mas usually happen as the result of a serious injury or illness, and not as a con-
sequence of simply lying down and falling to sleep.
7.We’re not told that Gibson was in a coma during those 108 years of uncon-
sciousnes, but we can infer that he had been in a coma-like state, at least, for that
time. It is more of a stretch to think that a person not only could survive in such a
state for so long, but could actually live well beyond a normal human life span—and
then wake up with a little stiffness and a luxuriant beard as the only after-effects.
9
“Thursday, the twenty-fourth of March!” I said. “I tell you that was
yesterday. I distinctly remember all that happened. This must be a
dream, or you are deceiving me—you mean to—”
But he interrupted me.
“Your own senses tell you it is no dream,” he said, almost sternly.
“Nor shall you long want for proof that it is, indeed, the twenty-first cen-
tury. Come with me.”
“In the first place,” I said, “I would like this removed,” indicating my
beard. “Can you take me to a barber’s?”
“A barber?” he replied. “Ah! to be sure—you lived a century ago. We
don’t have such things now. This will serve your purpose.” Going for-
ward to the table he lifted a small bottle, and, unscrewing the stopper,
drew out a sort of flat brush. This he drew gently down one side of my
face, and thereupon motioned me to look in the glass. The sight that met
my gaze was even more ludicrous than at first. On the right side of my
face not a vestige of a hair was to be seen, while the other was, as I had
seen it before, covered with a huge bushy beard.
I asked him what magic this was.
“Only a preparation,” he replied, with a smile, “for removing and
keeping down the growth of hair. We only require to use it once a week
or once a fortnight. I’ve heard my grandfather talk of the old fashion of
shaving, and it always struck me as being very clumsy and a great
bother.”
“Well,” I said, “since you've begun you had better finish, as I don’t
want to go about like this.” He laughed, and, applying the brush again,
in a second had my face as clean as a baby’s.
“You’d better brush your hair now,” he said, handing me a pair of
brushes.
My hair, I think I said before, was very long, and looked like a huge
stable mop. With a touch from these brushes, however, it began to
8.For the record, at this writing (March, 2005), the longest known coma was that of
an Elaine Esposito, who never regained consciousness after being anaesthetized for
an appendectomy in 1941, at age 6. She remained in the coma until her death a few
days shy of her 44th birthday, in 1978. Total length of time she was in coma was 37
years and 111 days. (Source: Guinness Book of World Records)
9.Some people eventually emerge from their coma, of course, whether after a few
days, weeks or months, or even after many years in a few cases. Almost always, they
need extended therapy (psychological, physical, speech, etc.) to recover from the ef-
fects of lying in coma, as well as from any lingering effects of the original trauma.
Few if any individuals coming out of a coma can just hop out of bed, yawn, and im-
mediately begin living a regular life again.
10
assume more civilised proportions; and when I finished brushing I
looked as if I had just had my hair cut.
“Something new, too?” I said, laying down the brushes.
“No, those aren’t a very recent invention. They always keep the hair
the same length, and you can alter the length to suit yourself by this
simple means.” Here he showed me a small dial on the backs of the
brushes with figures on it.
“But where does all the hair go to?” I inquired.
“Oh, it is destroyed; the same liquid that is in that bottle is in the
brushes, and it destroys the hair whenever it comes in contact with it.
But put on this jacket,” he went on. “It is fortunate we are much of the
same build; for the present my wardrobe is at your service.”
I put on my jacket, and, looking about me, said:
“I don’t see any boots or shoes; would you be good enough—”
“Ah! how stupid of me!” he replied, going to the wardrobe which I
had been unable to open. On his touching it twice, the door slid back,
and he produced a pair of shoes, the uppers of which seemed to be made
of the same stuff as the rest of the clothing, while the soles were of a hard
sort of gutta-percha. I put them on, and found they fitted perfectly.
“Now,” he said, “if you are ready we will go down and have some
food, as I expect you’ll be hungry. You deserve to be, at any rate.” And I
agreed with him there. “It’s just about my regular meal-time anyway,”
he added, looking at a signet ring on his left hand “6.34. The days are
stretching out.”
“May I look at that?” I said, for I saw that he had told the hour by the
ring.
“Certainly,” he replied; “had you not even watches in your days?”
“Oh, yes, we had, but this is very neat.” It was an ordinary sized signet
ring with the figures 6.34 on it. As I looked it changed to 6.35, and those
were the only figures to be seen. How they managed to get all the works
into such small compass I don’t know. I returned it to him, and he
slipped it on to his finger.
11
Chapter
3
The new light — We have dinner — Adams turns out to be a golfer —
Coloured photographs — The pink room — The private theatre — I go
to bed.
He motioned with his hand for me to precede him. I moved towards
the door, which as usual opened at my approach, and we stood in a large
well-appointed hall. It was very high, and seemed to be lighted in some
way from the roof, which was a large white dome, planned in the same
style as the other two rooms, but on a larger scale. The light—it was a
bright electric white—seemed to be shed from all parts equally.
“Ah! you admire our light,” said my companion, seeing my look of
wonder. “That is a capital contrivance. It is electric light behind that glass
dome, and we have a wonderful little machine, so placed as to catch only
daylight, which under the action of light, keeps up a quick rotation. It is
connected with an electric current, and as the rotation gets slower, which
it does naturally as the light fades, the current is gradually turned on.
The slower it gets, the stronger the current and consequently the light.
When it ceases altogether the artificial light is at its strongest, and is
equal to daylight. So you see we have always the same light—there is no
twilight indoors.”
I could not quite follow him, but it seemed to me that, when the one
light faded, it quietly turned on the other light to take its place, which it
really did. A very convenient arrangement, I thought. They are a won-
derful people nowadays.
As we were still standing a gong sounded; it seemed to play a
tune—what it was, I don’t know. I'm not at all musical—at least I wasn’t
a century ago. Like old Dr. Todhunter, I only knew two tunes. Eh; what
were they, did you say? One was “God Save the Queen,” and the other
wasn’t, and I only knew it was “God Save the Queen” because I saw the
people stand up. It’s a very funny thing, but they seem to have missed
out the musical part of my composition: where my bump for music
should have been, there’s a decided hollow instead. I remember once
12
staying at a fashionable watering-place—if there is one thing I hate it’s
fashionable watering-places—and that fashionable watering-place had a
band. How I did hate that band! As soon as I got up it began to play, and
it didn’t stop till I went to bed, and always the same tune, of course; “the
other wasn’t,” except when it played “God Save the Queen.” Oh, yes, I
knew it was “God Save the Queen,” because I saw the people stand, and
I was always glad to hear it, as I knew it was the last. I got almost to
know it—at least I thought I did, and one night I thought I’d show how
clever I was, and stood up when I thought they had begun it; but it
wasn’t, so, as I didn’t like to sit down again, I took my hat and went off.
But to return.
“Ah! that dinner at last,” said Mr. Adams: “follow me.”
“But look here,” I said, “how about your people? They’ll wonder who
the deuce I am!”
“Oh,” he said, “don’t trouble yourself on that score. I’ve only a sister
who stays with me, and she is away just now, so we’ll have the whole
place to ourselves.”
As he spoke he walked on to a square red rug at one side of the hall
between two pillars. I did likewise, and we at once descended to the
floor below.
We were now in a hall very similar to the one we had left. The walls,
which were coated with a kind of enamel, had a dado of black at the foot
which gradually shaded off into white towards the top. We crossed the
hall and went into a large dining-room, where there was a table laid out.
Mr. Adams motioned me to a seat, which I took, nothing loath, as I
began to feel not a little hungry. The walls of this room were the same as
the hall, only the colour was a dark bronze, getting lighter near the roof
or dome. It was furnished with large heavy furniture, with an eye to
comfort evidently, judging from the couches, settees, & c., with which
the room abounded. There were also three large mirrors reaching from
floor to ceiling on each of the three walls. The fourth was taken up by the
window, which was almost the breadth of the room.
The table, which was round, was set for two, and there was a large
fern in the centre, round which were some vases with white flowers that
gave out a most delicious perfume. It all looked familiar enough, but
after taking our seats my companion pressed a finger on the table, and
immediately a gap yawned in front of us. The table seemed to be made
of three concentric circular pieces, and the middle one sank down
through the floor, leaving intact the outer one, which formed the edge of
the complete table, and the “hub,” on which the flowers were. The
13
“dumb waiter” portion presently reappeared, bearing two plates of soup
on it.
“You see we don’t require servants to wait on us nowadays,” said Mr.
Adams. “Two men manage the whole of my household. There are so
many machines to minimise labour, that they have quite taken the place
of servants, and our food, you know, is all sent in ready cooked.”
After we had finished our soup he pushed his plate in front of him,
and I did the same. He again pressed the table with his finger; the plates
disappeared, and up came the second course. So it went on through an
excellent dinner, which I did full justice to. I must not forget to mention
the drink. By our sides were placed two small syphons. When I first saw
them I breathed a fervent prayer inwardly that it might not turn out that
the people among whom I had come to life again were wholly given over
to teetotalism. My fears were quickly allayed by my host saying:
“Try that champagne and tell me what you think of it.”
I did as he bade me, and found it a first-rate brand.
“No new invention about this,” I said, smacking my lips.
“No,” he replied; “the teetotalers have always been trying to palm off
on us some new drink or other, but without success. We always come
back to the old tipple.”
“You smoke?” queried my host, rising as we had finished dinner.
“Very well, then; let us go into the smoking-room.”
We went across the hall into another room, smaller than the dining-
room, but just as comfortably furnished, in which a cheerful fire burned.
It was the first fire I had seen, and I asked him if this was the only one in
the house.
“Yes,” he replied; “as a matter of fact it is. The rest of the house is
heated by pipes and hot air, but I always have an old-fashioned fire in
this room from choice. It makes a room so nice and home-like.”
We drew our chairs towards the fire, and he, pulling out a cigar case,
offered me a cigar. I now felt more at home than I had done since I
awoke among so many strange sights and novelties.
“It’s very odd,” I remarked, after a short silence, “that I am sitting here
after lying for more than a century as one dead; and still more so that I
distinctly remember all that happened on the last day of my former exist-
ence, as if it were indeed yesterday. Brown and his long putts, too. Oh, I
simply threw away that match.” I was talking rather to myself than to
my companion in thus musing on the past; but the effect on him was
magical.
14