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Authors: Richard Lupoff
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Major Folliot?"
"Du Maurier claims, twenty-eight years."
"But you look very young to have been away so long."
"To me it seems a matter of… I cannot be certain, but, I would think, some months. At the most, a very few years. Two or three years. Four at the most."
"Surely not twenty-eight."
"Surely not."
Madame Mesmer clasped her hands in the small of her back and paced the room like a man. After a while she returned to du Maurier's bedside. She bent solicitously to study the man, then rose again. "He is asleep. His strength has a limit. But the end, although it is rushing upon him, is not here yet."
She turned to face Clive.
"I suppose you wonder at my role in this little drama, Major."
"Indeed!"
"You have heard of my illustrious ancestor, perhaps. The great Franz Anton Mesmer."
"I have heard of the great charlatan, Anton Mesmer. Forgive me, madame, for speaking bluntly. But I believe it more honorable to speak truthfully, even at the price of giving offense to one whom I would not wish to offend, than it would be to dissemble."
Color flared in her graceful cheeks, and the flame of the oil lamp seemed to flare briefly in its reflection. Her eyes were very dark. Perhaps, in the dim illumination of the sickroom, the irises had opened, creating a darker appearance than would normally have been the case.
"My ancestor, Major, was pilloried by the envious and the ignorant. But his theories of animal magnetism and his experiments in its control—in what has come to be known as
Mesmerism
—have never been disputed. Not once. On the contrary, experimenters on every continent have duplicated Anton Mesmer's work, and without exception their results have sustained his beliefs. The time will come when he is recognized as one of the truly great figures of human history!"
"I do not wish to quarrel, Madame. Perhaps you will kindly come to your point."
"My point, Major, is that the discrepancy in time as experienced by Mr. du Maurier and by yourself is subject to several explanations. One is that you did, indeed, live only a few years while Mr. du Maurier lived for twenty-eight. This other reality which you experienced, this…
Dungeon
, may exist in lockstep with the Earth. In that case—"
She had resumed her restless pacing again, her hands clasped, as before, in the small of her back. As she passed between him and the oil lamp, Clive could not but notice the flicker of lamplight upon her graceful bosom. 'He suppressed a sharp intake of breath and concentrated on her words.
"In that case," she repeated, "your 1870, let us say—the
Dungeons
1870—exists side by side with the Earth's 1870. You lived but, let us say, two years. You reached the year 1870, at which point you were snatched up by George du Maurier's psychic force and carried twenty-six years into your future. Your future. Our present. The year 1896."
"A pretty fancy," Clive rejoined. He rose from his chair and stood facing her. "Travel through time. Thus might one journey to observe the building of the pyramids, the parting of the Red Sea, the landing upon Mount Ararat, even the Crucifixion of the Savior—"
"—or one might fly in the opposite direction and observe the slow evolution of our descendants, at least according to the theories of Messrs. Darwin and Wallace. The slowing of the Earth's rotation, the dimming of the sun to a dull red globe." She had picked up Clive's narrative in midstride and continued it without missing a beat.
"But you said there were more explanations than one," Clive said, taking up the thread. He had advanced toward the woman and stood now, facing her, noting that her unusual height, in contrast to his own middling dimensions, brought their faces to a level. The warmth which the lamplight imparted to her olive skin and great black eyes made his pulse roar in his ears.
"Suppose," she said, smiling, "that the rate of time is not absolute and universal. Suppose that the stream of time
"Du Maurier claims, twenty-eight years."
"But you look very young to have been away so long."
"To me it seems a matter of… I cannot be certain, but, I would think, some months. At the most, a very few years. Two or three years. Four at the most."
"Surely not twenty-eight."
"Surely not."
Madame Mesmer clasped her hands in the small of her back and paced the room like a man. After a while she returned to du Maurier's bedside. She bent solicitously to study the man, then rose again. "He is asleep. His strength has a limit. But the end, although it is rushing upon him, is not here yet."
She turned to face Clive.
"I suppose you wonder at my role in this little drama, Major."
"Indeed!"
"You have heard of my illustrious ancestor, perhaps. The great Franz Anton Mesmer."
"I have heard of the great charlatan, Anton Mesmer. Forgive me, madame, for speaking bluntly. But I believe it more honorable to speak truthfully, even at the price of giving offense to one whom I would not wish to offend, than it would be to dissemble."
Color flared in her graceful cheeks, and the flame of the oil lamp seemed to flare briefly in its reflection. Her eyes were very dark. Perhaps, in the dim illumination of the sickroom, the irises had opened, creating a darker appearance than would normally have been the case.
"My ancestor, Major, was pilloried by the envious and the ignorant. But his theories of animal magnetism and his experiments in its control—in what has come to be known as
Mesmerism
—have never been disputed. Not once. On the contrary, experimenters on every continent have duplicated Anton Mesmer's work, and without exception their results have sustained his beliefs. The time will come when he is recognized as one of the truly great figures of human history!"
"I do not wish to quarrel, Madame. Perhaps you will kindly come to your point."
"My point, Major, is that the discrepancy in time as experienced by Mr. du Maurier and by yourself is subject to several explanations. One is that you did, indeed, live only a few years while Mr. du Maurier lived for twenty-eight. This other reality which you experienced, this…
Dungeon
, may exist in lockstep with the Earth. In that case—"
She had resumed her restless pacing again, her hands clasped, as before, in the small of her back. As she passed between him and the oil lamp, Clive could not but notice the flicker of lamplight upon her graceful bosom. 'He suppressed a sharp intake of breath and concentrated on her words.
"In that case," she repeated, "your 1870, let us say—the
Dungeons
1870—exists side by side with the Earth's 1870. You lived but, let us say, two years. You reached the year 1870, at which point you were snatched up by George du Maurier's psychic force and carried twenty-six years into your future. Your future. Our present. The year 1896."
"A pretty fancy," Clive rejoined. He rose from his chair and stood facing her. "Travel through time. Thus might one journey to observe the building of the pyramids, the parting of the Red Sea, the landing upon Mount Ararat, even the Crucifixion of the Savior—"
"—or one might fly in the opposite direction and observe the slow evolution of our descendants, at least according to the theories of Messrs. Darwin and Wallace. The slowing of the Earth's rotation, the dimming of the sun to a dull red globe." She had picked up Clive's narrative in midstride and continued it without missing a beat.
"But you said there were more explanations than one," Clive said, taking up the thread. He had advanced toward the woman and stood now, facing her, noting that her unusual height, in contrast to his own middling dimensions, brought their faces to a level. The warmth which the lamplight imparted to her olive skin and great black eyes made his pulse roar in his ears.
"Suppose," she said, smiling, "that the rate of time is not absolute and universal. Suppose that the stream of time
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