The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (73 page)

I now arrive at the
manner in which I came into possession of the three famous notebooks with the
aid of which I perfected the technique that allowed Otto, then Wilhelm, Storitz
to give free rein to their baser instincts. Contrary to the chemist’s
insinuations in his letter — he easily lends his own vices to others — this was
not by theft: I quite simply purchased them.

This came about some
time before the events which my biographer recounts in fictionalised form in
the book consecrated to myself. Upon returning from a study trip, I stayed one
evening in a small hostelry that I knew near to Port-Stowe, whose landlord, a
jovial individual named Mr Marvel, never failed to amuse me with his colourful
conversation. Exceptionally, that evening I found him morose. Since I was more
or less his only client, he sat at my table without hesitation and, while we
dined, he explained the reason for his sombre mood. His establishment was in
jeopardy: two other inns had opened in the vicinity. One, which was more
respectable than his own, was favoured by the bourgeoisie and their wives; the
other, which was much less so, attracted heavy drinkers and light women en
masse. A few old faithfuls hardly sufficed to keep things going, and because
they were old in all senses of the term, the day would not be long before this
small clientele disappeared in its turn. Marvel had therefore decided to pack
his bags and, weary of England, to seek his fortune in the Americas. Alas,
having found no buyer for his doomed inn, he had not managed to put together
the necessary sum to pay his passage.

Over after-dinner
drinks, when he had brought a bottle of his best whisky to the table,
on the
house,
he declared that I could help him to realize his project, assuring
me straight away that he was not asking for charity, but that he possessed an
item which would without a doubt be to my benefit to acquire. Did I recall that
invisible man that had sown terror in the region several years earlier, before
being beaten down by a furious crowd? How could I not remember it? I had
followed the affair in the newspapers and since then Mr Marvel himself had
regaled me with it each time I had stayed at his inn, which was, moreover,
named The Invisible Man. He liked to boast that he had played a part in it
which, although minor, gained in importance each time he related the story.

I realized much later
that my biographer, always in search of out-of-the-ordinary events, had by a
curious coincidence produced another novel drawn from this occurrence, a novel
as yet unpublished at the time of my stay in Port-Stowe — luckily for Marvel,
as the indiscreet author revealed within it that Marvel had in his possession
the notes made by Griffin, the invisible man, which had never been found by the
authorities.

When the inn-keeper
suggested selling them to me, intrigued, I asked to examine them. Having
refilled my glass and his own, he rose with an expression on his face which was
the most solemn he could adopt, and went to open the locked drawer of a
sideboard, which held a small coffer from which he drew three volumes bound in brown
leather and, it must be said, somewhat worn in appearance. He set them in front
of me as though they were sacred relics, swearing by all that is holy that he
had never before shown them to anyone, which I could well believe. I later
learned that there had been at least one exception, but my biographer had
always known how to get what he wanted.

Although I leafed
through them without close attention, this brief glance convinced me that they
came from the pen of a scholar: the equations I discovered there seemed
well-balanced and not in the slightest fantastical. Perhaps they would at least
give me material for reflection. Led astray by the whisky, and desiring to be
of service to my host, I enquired as to the price he wanted, bargained a little
on principle, and quickly concluded the deal.

The next day I returned
home. Too preoccupied by my current work, I put the books away in my library,
where they remained for some long months.

As for Mr Marvel, I
learned later that he well and truly left for the New World. There, the
ex-vagabond and ex-landlord of the inn made a name for himself in the state of
Kansas, where he became a travelling fortune-teller under the name of Professor
Marvel.

There remains to explain
how, to my great unhappiness and that of so many others, I came to encounter
Otto Storitz.

If the events related by
my biographer make me appear a greater hero than I ever was, they do remain at
least generally accurate. Upon my return I was devastated, depressed by the
loss of Weena, universally disgusted by the world and by humanity. I decided to
occupy myself from then on with myself alone, and wished to change my
environment as a symbol of this new existence. However, when I left, this was
not intended to be a new voyage into a distant future, but a simple journey of
several weeks, designed to exhaust the patience of my friends and to ensure
that there would be no further risk of their presenting themselves at my door.
This done, I organised my departure discreetly. I took only what was strictly necessary;
a few personal effects, my machine, and the contents of my library. Trusting my
new place of residence to chance, I put on a blindfold and threw a dart at a
planisphere. It landed in the very heart of Germany, and it was thus for
Germany that I departed.

Once there, I realized
that I was hardly content, no more so than I had been in England, and doubtless
no more so than I would have been in any other European country, where a
strained political situation produced the incessant threat of war. I had known
enough violence; I only hoped for peace.

Then an idea came to me.
I suspected that nowhere in the world would have brought me what I desired
during my time, but, of all men, I was the sole one not constrained by the
immutable course of time.

Suppressing my scruples,
thanks to my machine I had no difficulty in gaining fabulous riches on the
horse tracks. After having changed my winnings for gold, the only currency I
presumed eternal, I began the long process which would end in the discovery of
the peaceful era in which I live at the present time of writing, an era which I
have no intention of identifying here, except to say that it can be found in a
future not too far distant from that which I had left.

While I was hesitating
between remaining in Germany, where fate had led me, and returning to England
(two nations that however no longer existed as such), my attention was caught
by the auction sale of a superb medieval château in old Spremberg. I had, I
admit, always dreamed of owning one, and the temptation was too strong. Money
being no problem, I carried off the auction with a high hand and went to
install myself in my new domain, after having had part of it restored in order
to make it habitable. I left the rest as it was for the pleasure of the sight.

This new existence
brought me all the happiness of which I had dreamed. Several months later I
fell in love with a young woman of the region, married her, and undertook the
task of begetting children. We now have three, two boys and a girl, who are our
pride and joy.

My unhappiness was
brought about by a mixture of curiosity and idleness. One evening, when my wife
and our then only child had gone to visit her parents for a week, I was bored
to death and, after several glasses, the idea came to me to make use of my
machine again. I had never, after all, explored the past. What harm could be
done by a rapid foray into the memories held by these old stones which
surrounded me? Perhaps I could even visit my own château at different periods,
from the time of its construction, and on my return write a dissertation on its
history using firsthand information . . .

Decisions taken quickly,
after one has drunk a little, are often foolish, and this was no exception to
the rule: my machine held pride of place in the large room which was formerly a
dining-room, but which now served as my laboratory, so I was able to depart
that very evening. I had no fear that my absence would be noticed, having the
firm intention of returning the instant following my departure. Since I had,
however, no idea how long I might be spending in the past, I decided to take
some reading matter. It was upon exploring my library that I came upon the
three notebooks bought from Mr Marvel, the existence of which I had almost
forgotten. I stowed them into my bag thinking they would provide a welcome
source of intellectual stimulation.

The rest can be
imagined. Following two or three visits to past times where I wisely avoided
being noticed, I arrived in 1753. Finding the château deserted, I was preparing
to explore when Otto Storitz surprised me. I then committed the error of
desiring to speak with him, rather than throwing myself on to my machine and
departing. It is well-known what this cost me.

Upon my return, older by
more than a year and still having no idea of the wrongs caused to innocent
people by my thoughtlessness, I did not dismantle my machine: I purely and
simply destroyed it.

Since I discovered the
misfortunes of the Vidal family, I have come to regret this gesture, and to
believe that on returning to the time just before these events took place I
could influence their course. The desire to construct another machine, however,
leaves me as quickly as it arrives: it is too dangerous to wish to change
history, and I have already brought about too many catastrophes. Who knows if
the remedy would not be worse than the disease? For as much as this weighs upon
me, I must continue to live with my guilt, hoping that on Judgment Day God will
see fit to pardon he whose incomplete and inexact, but unique biography names
only —

— The Time Traveller.

Translated from the French by
Finn Sinclair

In 1978 the City of
Nantes, where Verne was born, opened a Jules Verne Museum in celebration of
Verne’s achievements. There is no doubt that Verne was a major influence in
popularising science and causing men of science to look to the future. The
following story was inspired by a visit to the Museum and, in its vision and
outlook, is a fitting conclusion to our own celebration of the works of Jules
Verne.

He knew that something
was wrong as soon as he looked into the mirror. His own face, dark and
secret-filled, seemed curiously transparent, as though the light of the meagre
room was shining through it. He knew what it meant and a great elation, coupled
with fear, raced through him, filling his veins with ice and fire. The past
snapped at his heels, ready to tear him back, and he was ready to go. But
leaving meant that he would have to make it back to the rift, and he did not
know yet how he was going to accomplish this without the vessel.

He wandered out into the
warm Sri Lankan night, heavy with rainfall and the song of crickets.
No
matter,
he thought, with a patience accrued over many, many years. An
answer would present itself. The universe had started to align itself for him,
as it always had, as if in compensation for all that had been taken away, and
would now be returned.

A day after that, he
read the newspaper article in the little bar along the street, and realized
with dismay that his answer was waiting for him. And he could not let it
happen.

The museum fascinated me
as a child. It stood perched on its hill above the curve of the Loire, high
over the silvery gleam of the river. In winter, my mother used to take me there
after school, shaking her head, saying, “Jacques, wouldn’t you like to go to
the cinema instead?” She was a practical woman, but science bored her, and I
think she thought that the museum was little more than a folly, a legacy of the
last century. Perhaps she was right. But I was enchanted with the diagrams and
pictures, the dioramas, the mock-up of the submarine’s steering room with its
plush red-velvet seats. I used to imagine that I was its captain, battling sea
monsters from the deep and when we came out of the museum, I would stare down
the estuary to the chilly line of the Atlantic and think:
one day, I will
sail out there.

When I was eleven,
however, my father was transferred to a plant on the outskirts of Paris and we
went with him. I could no longer see the sea, and over the years I forgot about
the museum. I followed in his footsteps, first intending to become an engineer,
but rapidly becoming diverted into information technology. I found myself
working for a dotcom in Germany, and then running one. It seemed as though
nothing could go wrong, for a while, but I could see the crash coming, like a
great wave towering above the horizon, and I sold out just in time. I made a
fortune by the time I was twenty-five, and my luck held. By the time I was
thirty-six, I was quite unspeakably wealthy, living partly in France but mainly
in California.