Short Fiction H. G. Wells (classic books for 7th graders TXT) 📖

these latter days required. He lived in a vast hotel near that part of London called Seventh Way, and had very large and comfortable apartments on the seventeenth floor. Households and family life had long since disappeared with the progressive refinement of manners; and indeed the steady rise in rents and land values, the disappearance of domestic servants, the elaboration of cookery, had rendered the separate domicile of Victorian times impossible, even had anyone desired such a savage seclusion. When his toilet was completed he went towards one of the two doors of his apartment⁠—there were doors at opposite ends, each marked with a huge arrow pointing one one way and one the other⁠—touched a stud to open it, and emerged on a wide passage, the centre of which bore chairs and was moving at a steady pace to the left. On some of these chairs were seated gaily-dressed men and women. He nodded to an acquaintance⁠—it was not in those days etiquette to talk before breakfast⁠—and seated himself on one of these chairs, and in a few seconds he had been carried to the doors of a lift, by which he descended to the great and splendid hall in which his breakfast would be automatically served.

It was a very different meal from a Victorian breakfast. The rude masses of bread needing to be carved and smeared over with animal fat before they could be made palatable, the still recognisable fragments of recently killed animals, hideously charred and hacked, the eggs torn ruthlessly from beneath some protesting hen⁠—such things as these, though they constituted the ordinary fare of Victorian times, would have awakened only horror and disgust in the refined minds of the people of these latter days. Instead were pastes and cakes of agreeable and variegated design, without any suggestion in colour or form of the unfortunate animals from which their substance and juices were derived. They appeared on little dishes sliding out upon a rail from a little box at one side of the table. The surface of the table, to judge by touch and eye, would have appeared to a nineteenth-century person to be covered with fine white damask, but this was really an oxidised metallic surface, and could be cleaned instantly after a meal. There were hundreds of such little tables in the hall, and at most of them were other latter-day citizens singly or in groups. And as Mwres seated himself before his elegant repast, the invisible orchestra, which had been resting during an interval, resumed and filled the air with music.

But Mwres did not display any great interest either in his breakfast or the music; his eye wandered incessantly about the hall, as though he expected a belated guest. At last he rose eagerly and waved his hand, and simultaneously across the hall appeared a tall dark figure in a costume of yellow and olive green. As this person, walking amidst the tables with measured steps, drew near, the pallid earnestness of his face and the unusual intensity of his eyes became apparent. Mwres reseated himself and pointed to a chair beside him.

“I feared you would never come,” he said. In spite of the intervening space of time, the English language was still almost exactly the same as it had been in England under Victoria the Good. The invention of the phonograph and suchlike means of recording sound, and the gradual replacement of books by such contrivances, had not only saved the human eyesight from decay, but had also by the establishment of a sure standard arrested the process of change in accent that had hitherto been so inevitable.

“I was delayed by an interesting case,” said the man in green and yellow. “A prominent politician⁠—ahem!⁠—suffering from overwork.” He glanced at the breakfast and seated himself. “I have been awake for forty hours.”

“Eh dear!” said Mwres: “fancy that! You hypnotists have your work to do.”

The hypnotist helped himself to some attractive amber-coloured jelly. “I happen to be a good deal in request,” he said modestly.

“Heaven knows what we should do without you.”

“Oh! we’re not so indispensable as all that,” said the hypnotist, ruminating the flavour of the jelly. “The world did very well without us for some thousands of years. Two hundred years ago even⁠—not one! In practice, that is. Physicians by the thousand, of course⁠—frightfully clumsy brutes for the most part, and following one another like sheep⁠—but doctors of the mind, except a few empirical flounderers there were none.”

He concentrated his mind on the jelly.

“But were people so sane⁠—?” began Mwres.

The hypnotist shook his head. “It didn’t matter then if they were a bit silly or faddy. Life was so easygoing then. No competition worth speaking of⁠—no pressure. A human being had to be very lopsided before anything happened. Then, you know, they clapped ’em away in what they called a lunatic asylum.”

“I know,” said Mwres. “In these confounded historical romances that everyone is listening to, they always rescue a beautiful girl from an asylum or something of the sort. I don’t know if you attend to that rubbish.”

“I must confess I do,” said the hypnotist. “It carries one out of oneself to hear of those quaint, adventurous, half-civilised days of the nineteenth century, when men were stout and women simple. I like a good swaggering story before all things. Curious times they were, with their smutty railways and puffing old iron trains, their rum little houses and their horse vehicles. I suppose you don’t read books?”

“Dear, no!” said Mwres, “I went to a modern school and we had none of that old-fashioned nonsense. Phonographs are good enough for me.”

“Of course,” said the hypnotist, “of course”; and surveyed the table for his next choice. “You know,” he said, helping himself to a dark blue confection that promised well, “in those days our business was scarcely thought of. I daresay if anyone had told them that in two hundred years’ time a class of men would be entirely occupied in impressing things