"Jules Verne - In the Year 2889b" - читать интересную книгу автора (Verne Jules)

on growing, till now it reaches the almost unimaginable figure of
$10,000,000,000. This lucky hit has enabled him to erect his new building, a
vast edifice with four facades, each 3250 feet in length, over which proudly
floats the hundred-starred flag of the Union. Thanks to the same lucky hit, he
is today king of newspaperdom; indeed, he would be king of America, too, if
Americans could ever accept a king. You do not believe it? Well, then, look at
the plenipotentiaries of all nations and our own ministers themselves crowding
about his door, entreating his counsels, begging for his approbation, imploring
the aid of his all-powerful organ. Add up the number of scientists and artists
he supports, of inventors under his pay.
Yes, a king is he. And in truth his is a royalty full of burdens. His labors are
incessant, and, doubtless, in earlier times any man would have succumbed under
the overpowering stress Mr. Smith endures. Fortunately for him, thanks to the
progress of hygiene, which, abating all the old sources of disease, has lifted
human life expectancy from 37 up to 52 years, men have stronger constitutions
now than heretofore. The discovery of nutritive air remains in the future, but
in the meantime men today consume food scientifically compounded and prepared,
and breathe an atmosphere free of the microoganisms that once swarmed in it;
hence they live longer than their forefathers and know nothing of the
innumerable ailments of olden times.
Nevertheless, Fritz Napoleon Smith's mode of life may well astonish one. His
iron constitution is taxed to the utmost by the heavy strain upon it. Vain the
attempt to estimate the amount of labor he undergoes; only an example can give
an idea of it. Let us go about with him for one day as he attends to his
multifarious concerns. What day? That matters little; it is the same every day.
Let us take at random September 25th of this present year 2889.
This morning Mr. Fritz Napoleon Smith awakes in very bad humor. His wife left
for France eight days ago; he feels disconsolate. Incredible though it seems, in
the 10 years since their marriage, this is the first time Mrs. Edith Smith, the
professional model, has been so long absent from home; two or three days usually
suffice for her frequent trips to Europe. The first thing Mr. Smith does is
activate his phonotelephote, the wires of which communicate with his Paris
mansion. The telephote! Here is another great triumph of modern science. The
transmission of speech is an old story; the transmission of images by means of
sensitive mirrors connected by wires is a thing but of yesterday. A valuable
invention indeed; Mr. Smith this morning is full of blessings for the inventor,
when by its aid he is able distinctly to see his wife despite her great
distance.
Mrs. Smith, weary after the ball or the visit to the theater the preceding
night, is still abed, though it is near noontime at Paris. She is asleep, her
head sunk in the lace-covered pillows. What? She stirs? Her lips move. She
dreams, perhaps? Yes. She is talking, pronouncing a name--his name--Fritz! The
delightful vision gives a happier turn to Mr. Smith's thoughts. And now, at the
call of imperative duty, he lightheartedly springs from his bed and enters his
mechanical dresser.
Two minutes later the machine deposits him all dressed at the threshold of his
office. The round of journalistic work begins. First he enters the hall of
novelists, a vast apartment crowned with an enormous transparent cupola. In one
corner is a telephone, through which a hundred Earth Chronicle litterateurs in
turn recount to the public in daily installments a hundred novels. Smith