The Clock of the Centuries

by Albert Robida

  Robert interrupted his business affairs to wait for the doctor, an old family friend, who had been summoned immediately by telephone. This was Doctor Montarcy, whose work on neurasthenia and the exhaustion or perturbation of the nervous system, no less than his studies of microbial diseases, had elevated him to the first rank of modern therapists. Everyone was familiar with his slender and clean-shaven face, his golden pince-nez and his long snow-white hair.

  Monsieur Laforcade had not seen him for a long time, and found him changed—older and a trifle worn out, which was not at all astonishing. After the preliminary explanations, the doctor sank into an armchair next to the invalid and studied her silently, with an anxious attitude that alarmed Robert and the sick woman noticed herself.

  “Well, doctor, what are we dealing with?” said Robert. “It’s nothing, isn’t it?”

  “Nothing?” exclaimed the doctor, leaping to his feat so abruptly that his pince-nez fell off. “Nothing, as you put it—but it’s immense, it’s amazing!”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Robert taking him by the sleeve. “Ahem! You’re dreaming, my old friend.”

  “I’m dreaming! When I explain it to you, you’ll see whether or not I’m dreaming! You must have some suspicion, though, having noticed…” He took a notebook from his pocket and consulted it, making an occasional note while playing with his pencil-holder. “As observers and analysts, society people really don’t shine; they only have eyes, it seems, in order to take delight in their foolishness. So you haven’t noticed…but let’s get on with it; you’ll understand soon enough. You can judge the enormity of the phenomenon and its consequences for yourself—which are, I assure you, extraordinary, unexpected and fantastic. What asses, all the same, what idle talkers—I don’t mean you, I mean my intellectual colleagues who are quibbling, still discussing it between themselves, in low voices, so that it doesn’t get out too quickly…”

  Robert and Berthe, who had become very pale, looked at one another anxiously.

  “It’s necessary to finish up by recognizing it for what it is. Madame’s illness, for whose effects I grieve, will serve as my immediate demonstration.”

  Berthe was on the point of fainting.

  “I’ve never seen you like this, doctor,” cried Robert, furiously. “Are you in your right mind today? Can’t you see that you’re scaring your patient? It’s nothing very serious, though—I’m sure of it!”

  “Nothing very serious—on the contrary, as you shall see! If you recall, I’ve already treated Madame for this…wasn’t it about nine years ago?”

  “Yes, indeed, nine years ago, Berthe was rather ill—a nervous illness, primarily, but not very serious.”

  “That’s exactly it… This will be more benign, don’t worry…”

  “But you said…”

  “I said that nothing in the world was more serious, in terms of consequences more than phenomenal, almost extravagant, of which I hesitate even to give you a glimpse. Formidable consequences, which…but you…you cannot, however, have failed to notice some of the strange things that constitute, not merely veritable breaches of ancient natural laws but inversions of them—their complete reversal, my dear Robert!”

  “Certainly,” said Robert, impatiently. “Numerous bizarre things, reversals of the seasons—but that’s not the point. Let’s get back to my wife’s illness.”

  “But I already got to it, when I told you that it’s the illness she had nine years ago…”

  “Yes, but…”

  “But it’s the same, my friend, the same! But beginning at the end, of course, for Madame Laforcade is presently suffering the last ill-effects of her convalescence. They will become exaggerated, and then…”

  Robert and his wife looked at one another.

  “He’s wandering in the head,” thought Robert.

  “He’s mad,” Berthe told herself, somewhat reassured. “I like that better.”

  “No, I’m not mad!” exclaimed the doctor, who had understood the significance of that exchanged glance. “Not at all! Listen to me. When I tell you that it’s the illness you suffered nine years ago that has come back, I mean that it’s you who have returned to that epoch of your life, in the course of the general reversal to which we are all subject—you, me, the neighbors, and every other human being on Earth, and perhaps our entire Solar System! Have you got it yet? Do you understand? Have you grasped it? I’m giving you the key to the strange events and improbable phenomena, in the midst of which science is arguing against itself, trying to hypothesize, to comprehend, to co-ordinate…

  “I’m not the only one to have understood, of course; scientists everywhere studying their particular specialties, assembling the facts, have arrived at the same conclusions, and the truth has become obvious! Many of them, of course, are still struggling and don’t want to yield to the sovereign evidence of the facts, but the last resistance will collapse when this year’s International Congress, which opened three weeks ago, hears the report of the committee appointed last year…”

  Madame Laforcade, very pale as she lay on her pillow, said nothing, her eyes questioning her husband, who was thinking hard, with his head in his hand.

  “Yes, my friend, life is going backwards—that’s the absolute truth! The universal upheaval, in the course of which the human race thought it had reached its end, was more complete than anyone thought in the early days that followed the Great Terror, when the first strange and bizarre things were observed. One cannot say that the world has ended, since it continues in its course, but it is continuing in the reverse direction! After the great breakdown, when one might have believed that time was in revolt, the clock of the centuries started working again—but it’s working in reverse. The world, in short, is going backwards!”

  Berthe could not help smiling.

  “Oh, you can laugh!” said Doctor Montarcy. “Don’t hold back—plenty of others have laughed through their noses at me and all the others who were among the first to solve the great mystery. But let’s get back to you—how old were you nine years ago, when you fell ill? About 30, weren’t you? Well, you’re 30 once again—you’re reaching that milestone for the second time, but from the opposite direction. Come on, my dear Laforcade, look at your wife—haven’t you noticed that she’s getting younger every day? She thinks she’s 39, but she’s only 30, my friend, and next year she’ll be no more than 29! There you are! There’s nothing in that to cause you grief. And you, my friend, are nine years younger too, as am I and everyone else in the world…it’s quite simple. Hold on, look at me for a moment: honestly, don’t you think that I’ve been growing younger for some time?”

  “My word, doctor,” said Robert, laughing, “since you’re appealing to my honesty, I’m forced to confess that it doesn’t appear so.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes, I think you’ve aged. Your hair’s white…”

  “White! But I have to wear a wig nowadays, my hair having fallen out…”

  “That doesn’t seem to me to be a sign of rejuvenation, you know…”

  “On the contrary! My hair has fallen out—my white hairs—but others are growing, black ones…look!”

  With a rapid gesture, the doctor flung away his respectable crown of white hair. Underneath it, his head had a close-shaven appearance, and was almost completely black.

  “Extraordinary!” said Robert.

  The doctor picked up his wig and brandished it, his pince-nez dancing a frantic saraband. “And I feel, my friend, the youth that’s coming back to me. I was in the winter of my life, but here I am in the middle of autumn! Tomorrow will be summer, the glorious summer of valor and strength! The day after will be spring, with all its promises. Oh no, let’s say no more about promises… spring no longer promises anything…”

  Berthe let her head fall back, and closed her eyes.

  “But we’re tiring you out, Madame,” said the doctor, putting his wig back on and letting his enthusiasm fade away. Her convalescence is passing now and she’s
definitely a little worse; you’ll have to wait for the fever to die down, but it won’t be anything much… Let’s leave her to rest; I’ll give you a prescription…”

  Robert took the doctor to his study and sat him down at the desk. He heard people talking in the drawing-room and opened the door, having recognized the voices. There were two people there he knew: the old and celebrated writer Palluel, and the worthy Houquetot. They had come in search of news of Madame Laforcade, having learned that she was ill.

  “It’s nothing,” Robert relied to their first question, “or almost nothing.”

  “On the contrary, it’s all very serious!” exclaimed the doctor, while scribbling his prescription.

  Palluel and Houquetot looked at Robert. “I’m talking about the illness, doctor,” said the latter.

  “Ah! Good, the convalescence is over; here comes the worst of the fever!”

  “Eh? What’s he saying? Funny doctor!” murmured Houquetot.

  “I’ll explain it to you shortly,” said Robert.

  “Don’t explain anything—don’t abuse my confidence. When I’ve revealed the matter to the Congress, and all the world will know—your friends can wait until then!”

  Palluel and Houquetot sat down, looking at one another curiously. Palluel had been visiting the Laforcades frequently for some time, Madame Laforcade having suddenly recovered her sympathy for the venerable but scarcely worldly and elegant historian. As for Houquetot, who had made Robert’s acquaintance in such terrible circumstances, he had become a friend of the family, and Robert had found him a job that completely realized his most ambitious aspirations: easy work and modest duties.

  The doctor had finished scribbling; his pen had cracked audibly as he underlined his signature with a flourish. He was now making notes in his pocket-book, while his pince-nez continued performing acrobatics.

  “There you are,” he said, getting up. “I’ll come back tomorrow. Not a word until this evening—this afternoon I’m reading a summary of my observations to the Congress of Investigation and I’ll reveal everything. Ah, Monsieur Palluel. Delighted to see you, my dear colleague! Are you keeping well? Look at me—you seem a little peaky?”

  “Not at all, not at all!” exclaimed Palluel, getting up excitedly.

  “Yes, yes, you can’t hide anything from me—I’ve got it. I still have a physician’s eye for deciphering the slightest untoward symptom in the most unreadable physiognomy. You’re not looking well, my friend—take care of yourself!”

  “Doctor,” said Robert, laughing, “you’re terrible this morning. You see illness everywhere. Monsieur Palluel is holding up very well. Personally, I think he looks superb—flourishing.”

  “Well, I can discern an anxiety in his expression. Come on, my dear colleague, you’re a studious man, admit that you feel a certain anxiety about… Let’s see, I can’t explain myself too clearly… About all these phenomena that your observant mind cannot have failed to perceive, and for which you’re seeking an explanation…”

  “Well yes, that!” Palluel admitted. “I’m worried about the general state of affairs, and particularly on my own account. There’s something that’s bothering me personally—I’ve gone back to writing poetry!”

  “What? But that’s excellent. You have every reason to go back to writing poetry!”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve gone back to it—except that I dread that I’m returning to childhood and, not to put too fine a point on it, going senile, because, all the verses that I write, I discover subsequently that I’ve written them before!”

  “Very good! Very good! Oh, how delighted I am that you’ve told me that! Let me make a little note. And these verses that are coming back to you—when did you write them?”

  “Thirty-five years ago!”

  “Perfect! I anticipated as much… Irregularity in the phenomena, some proceeding more quickly, others more slowly… You’ve corroborated it, my friend. Thank you!”

  “What do you think, then?”

  “You’re returning to childhood, as you said. Me too! Come with me to the Congress and you’ll understand!”

  “I beg your pardon, doctor,” Houquetot put in. “Since you’re here, spare a second consultation for me, for I also have things to tell you…”

  “Verses are coming back to you too?”

  “Oh no, not that—with me, it’s teeth. This is the 12th one that’s come through again! I’m dying of starvation—my gums are permanently swollen!”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’ve jumped the six.”

  “What?”

  “I’m over 60.”

  “Well, you’ve jumped the six again, and the five, and perhaps the four. Don’t worry—you’ll understand this evening. To the Congress, my dear Monsieur Palluel!”

  CHAPTER V

  Time Going Backwards:

  The Astonishment of the Investigative Congress

  For several weeks, the Grand International Congress of Investigation, meeting for the fourth time in the New Era, had been holding sessions in the great amphitheater of the Sorbonne, which was too small for the occasion. Delegations of scientists from all over the world, representing almost all the civilized nations, had been compiling reports, detailing their studies of the new phenomena, opening inquiries, assembling and collating masses of evidence gathered from various places or reported by special commissions.

  The hall was definitely too small, filled up and overflowing into the corridors or smaller annexes, opened in haste by knocking down partition walls. All the most illustrious men of science were there, together with numerous less famous savants, the courageous workers and obscure pick-wielders digging in established furrows, not to mention many literary men and the serried battalions of reporters sent by the entire world’s press.

  It was literally stifling, and the work would have been rather difficult without the organization of the Congress into sections and study committees operating in various offices and not communicating with the plenary assembly until they had obtained their final results.

  Today, as he had said, the illustrious Montarcy, the president of the Congress’s central committee, was to read in public his general report summarizing his own research and personal discoveries, of which there had been loud rumor, and the entire works of his colleagues from every country. Although the illustrious Montarcy had balked at every interview and any indiscretion, refusing to give the slightest indication of his findings, many things were suspected and everyone was expecting a session of the greatest and most exciting interest. In the hubbub of voices, comprising disputes and animated conversations in every language in the world, the name of Montarcy was incessantly repeated, and everyone was waiting impatiently for the session to open.

  Monsieur Montarcy had brought Robert and Monsieur Palluel with him, but he did not let them out of his sight for a minute, thus prohibiting any conversation with anyone, so as to avoid the risk of a casual word putting them on the right track and spoiling the great effect that he was expecting.

  When he appeared at the rostrum, the most complete silence instantly fell, extinguishing the tumult. All conversations ceased, all documents were replaced in brief-cases, and all heads turned to the front of the room, while Montarcy, with the coquetry of an orator who knows how to wait, slowly arranged his sheaves of notes and mountains of documents in front of him.

  The entire first part of his report was a summary of various generally observed phenomena: a rapid list of all the changes manifest, so to speak, on the surface of the human habitat.

  Monsieur Montarcy paused briefly. His peroration had made him hot; with a mechanical movement, he lifted his wig slightly in order to mop his brow. It was very rapid, but some members of the audience were amazed to glimpse the black crew-cut beneath his white wig. The illustrious Montarcy hastened to start speaking again, beginning a new chapter.

  “Everywhere, gentlemen, the same observations have been made regarding the perturbations in the cycle of the seasons. After the great uph
eaval, nature, it seems, has been ill for a while, and during that convalescence, the order of the universe, profoundly disturbed, has presented the strangest anomalies: seasons altered or succeeding one another—take note—with a remarkable velocity, winter mingling with summer, spring following autumn, a complete confusion in which we are lost; abrupt changes of temperature, abnormal and ultra-rapid vegetation, plants sprouting and blooming exceptionally, then the withering and dying of innumerable vegetables in week-long seasons…

  “Well, gentlemen, these strange perturbations in the formerly-regular course of life, this exceptional blooming and withering, have also been experienced by human beings—and it is to this point that I ask you to devote your complete attention…”

  “Silence! Silence! Listen! Listen!”

  “These strange upheavals and these maladies of simple vegetable species in the great crisis of nature, have applied equally to human beings, without them yet paying overmuch attention to the fact during the period of feverish labor that has followed the Great Terror. But physicians, as all my colleagues can testify, have had numerous causes for amazement in the meantime. Medical science, the fruit of the experience and reflection of centuries has become a vain jumble of false notions, across the board. The usual development of diseases seemed changed, the order of their phases inverted—in a word, reversed, like our seasons…”

  “Yes, yes! Exactly!”

  “Quiet, please, gentlemen! Let the Master speak.”

  “Yes—that was the moment at least to try my method… the meth….”

  “Silence!”

  “To continue, we have seen people beginning their illnesses at the end; we have seen it again and again, and we shall see it for a long time to come…” Montarcy turned to Robert. “…commencing with the end, I say, finding, so to speak, the cause of death at the beginning and then seeing the illness terminate in a mild indisposition, with the initial symptoms at the end! The doctors did not understand immediately. I hasten to say that it is only after a large number of observations, gentlemen, that the fulgurant light of truth was suddenly ignited within our eyes! Doctors, have we not all had to care for people who, scarcely ill, seemed suddenly to age rapidly…very rapidly…like our seasons?”