Chapter: The thirtieth day of May, 1887, fell on a Monday. It was one of the
annual holidays of the nation in the latter third of the nineteenth
century, being set apart under the name of Decoration Day, for doing
honor to the memory of the soldiers of the North who took part in the
war for the preservation of the union of the States. The survivors of
the war, escorted by military and civic processions and bands of
music, were wont on this occasion to visit the cemeteries and lay
wreaths of flowers upon the graves of their dead comrades, the
ceremony being a very solemn and touching one. The eldest brother of
Edith Bartlett had fallen in the war, and on Decoration Day the family
was in the habit of making a visit to Mount Auburn, where he lay.

I had asked permission to make one of the party, and, on our return to
the city at nightfall, remained to dine with the family of my
betrothed. In the drawing-room, after dinner, I picked up an evening
paper and read of a fresh strike in the building trades, which would
probably still further delay the completion of my unlucky house. I
remember distinctly how exasperated I was at this, and the
objurgations, as forcible as the presence of the ladies permitted,
which I lavished upon workmen in general, and these strikers in
particular. I had abundant sympathy from those about me, and the
remarks made in the desultory conversation which followed, upon the
unprincipled conduct of the labor agitators, were calculated to make
those gentlemen's ears tingle. It was agreed that affairs were going
from bad to worse very fast, and that there was no telling what we
should come to soon. "The worst of it," I remember Mrs. Bartlett's
saying, "is that the working classes all over the world seem to be
going crazy at once. In Europe it is far worse even than here. I'm
sure I should not dare to live there at all. I asked Mr. Bartlett the
other day where we should emigrate to if all the terrible things took
place which those socialists threaten. He said he did not know any
place now where society could be called stable except Greenland,
Patagonia, and the Chinese Empire." "Those Chinamen knew what they
were about," somebody added, "when they refused to let in our western
civilization. They knew what it would lead to better than we did. They
saw it was nothing but dynamite in disguise."

After this, I remember drawing Edith apart and trying to persuade her
that it would be better to be married at once without waiting for the
completion of the house, spending the time in travel till our home
was ready for us. She was remarkably handsome that evening, the
mourning costume that she wore in recognition of the day setting off
to great advantage the purity of her complexion. I can see her even
now with my mind's eye just as she looked that night. When I took my
leave she followed me into the hall and I kissed her good-by as usual.
There was no circumstance out of the common to distinguish this
parting from previous occasions when we had bade each other good-by
for a night or a day. There was absolutely no premonition in my mind,
or I am sure in hers, that this was more than an ordinary separation.

Ah, well!

The hour at which I had left my betrothed was a rather early one for a
lover, but the fact was no reflection on my devotion. I was a
confirmed sufferer from insomnia, and although otherwise perfectly
well had been completely fagged out that day, from having slept
scarcely at all the two previous nights. Edith knew this and had
insisted on sending me home by nine o'clock, with strict orders to go
to bed at once.

The house in which I lived had been occupied by three generations of
the family of which I was the only living representative in the direct
line. It was a large, ancient wooden mansion, very elegant in an
old-fashioned way within, but situated in a quarter that had long
since become undesirable for residence, from its invasion by tenement
houses and manufactories. It was not a house to which I could think of
bringing a bride, much less so dainty a one as Edith Bartlett. I had
advertised it for sale, and meanwhile merely used it for sleeping
purposes, dining at my club. One servant, a faithful colored man by
the name of Sawyer, lived with me and attended to my few wants. One
feature of the house I expected to miss greatly when I should leave
it, and this was the sleeping chamber which I had built under the
foundations. I could not have slept in the city at all, with its never
ceasing nightly noises, if I had been obliged to use an upstairs
chamber. But to this subterranean room no murmur from the upper world
ever penetrated. When I had entered it and closed the door, I was
surrounded by the silence of the tomb. In order to prevent the
dampness of the subsoil from penetrating the chamber, the walls had
been laid in hydraulic cement and were very thick, and the floor was
likewise protected. In order that the room might serve also as a vault
equally proof against violence and flames, for the storage of
valuables, I had roofed it with stone slabs hermetically sealed, and
the outer door was of iron with a thick coating of asbestos. A small
pipe, communicating with a wind-mill on the top of the house, insured
the renewal of air.

It might seem that the tenant of such a chamber ought to be able to
command slumber, but it was rare that I slept well, even there, two
nights in succession. So accustomed was I to wakefulness that I minded
little the loss of one night's rest. A second night, however, spent in
my reading chair instead of my bed, tired me out, and I never allowed
myself to go longer than that without slumber, from fear of nervous
disorder. From this statement it will be inferred that I had at my
command some artificial means for inducing sleep in the last resort,
and so in fact I had. If after two sleepless nights I found myself on
the approach of the third without sensations of drowsiness, I called
in Dr. Pillsbury.

He was a doctor by courtesy only, what was called in those days an
"irregular" or "quack" doctor. He called himself a "Professor of
Animal Magnetism." I had come across him in the course of some amateur
investigations into the phenomena of animal magnetism. I don't think
he knew anything about medicine, but he was certainly a remarkable
mesmerist. It was for the purpose of being put to sleep by his
manipulations that I used to send for him when I found a third night
of sleeplessness impending. Let my nervous excitement or mental
preoccupation be however great, Dr. Pillsbury never failed, after a
short time, to leave me in a deep slumber, which continued till I was
aroused by a reversal of the mesmerizing process. The process for
awaking the sleeper was much simpler than that for putting him to
sleep, and for convenience I had made Dr. Pillsbury teach Sawyer how
to do it.

My faithful servant alone knew for what purpose Dr. Pillsbury visited
me, or that he did so at all. Of course, when Edith became my wife I
should have to tell her my secrets. I had not hitherto told her this,
because there was unquestionably a slight risk in the mesmeric sleep,
and I knew she would set her face against my practice. The risk, of
course, was that it might become too profound and pass into a trance
beyond the mesmerizer's power to break, ending in death. Repeated
experiments had fully convinced me that the risk was next to nothing
if reasonable precautions were exercised, and of this I hoped, though
doubtingly, to convince Edith. I went directly home after leaving her,
and at once sent Sawyer to fetch Dr. Pillsbury. Meanwhile I sought my
subterranean sleeping chamber, and exchanging my costume for a
comfortable dressing-gown, sat down to read the letters by the evening
mail which Sawyer had laid on my reading table.

One of them was from the builder of my new house, and confirmed what I
had inferred from the newspaper item. The new strikes, he said, had
postponed indefinitely the completion of the contract, as neither
masters nor workmen would concede the point at issue without a long
struggle. Caligula wished that the Roman people had but one neck that
he might cut it off, and as I read this letter I am afraid that for a
moment I was capable of wishing the same thing concerning the laboring
classes of America. The return of Sawyer with the doctor interrupted
my gloomy meditations.

It appeared that he had with difficulty been able to secure his
services, as he was preparing to leave the city that very night. The
doctor explained that since he had seen me last he had learned of a
fine professional opening in a distant city, and decided to take
prompt advantage of it. On my asking, in some panic, what I was to do
for some one to put me to sleep, he gave me the names of several
mesmerizers in Boston who, he averred, had quite as great powers as
he.

Somewhat relieved on this point, I instructed Sawyer to rouse me at
nine o'clock next morning, and, lying down on the bed in my
dressing-gown, assumed a comfortable attitude, and surrendered myself
to the manipulations of the mesmerizer. Owing, perhaps, to my
unusually nervous state, I was slower than common in losing
consciousness, but at length a delicious drowsiness stole over me.

 Julian West spends Decoration Day, which commemorates the soldiers of the Civil War, with Edith Bartlett and her family. At dinner he reads of another strike in the building trades and begins to complain about workers in general. Everyone at the table agrees that things are getting very bad. Edith points out that strikes are going on all over the world and that the only places safe from them are Greenland, Patagonia, and the Chinese Empire. That night he had tried to get Edith to agree to marry right away and then travel until their house was completed. He kisses her goodnight as he leaves with no thought that this would be an unusual parting. He leaves early because, as an insomniac, he had not slept for two nights, and Edith sends him home to get some rest. He goes to his ancestral house, which he had put on the market because its neighborhood was being "invaded by tenement houses and manufacturies." One special feature of this house is its underground room. Because he has so much trouble sleeping, he sleeps in a room that is hermetically sealed and sound proof. Nonetheless, he still suffers from insomnia. However, he never lets himself go more than two days without sleep. On the third night, he would call in Doctor Pillsbury, a quack doctor who calls himself "a Professor of Animal Magnetism." Doctor Pillsbury never fails to put him to sleep by using a form of hypnosis. Julian West had gotten the doctor to teach his servant, Sawyer, how to wake him from the trance. He had never told Edith about it because he knew she would disapprove of the risk of death that mesmerism posed. When he arrives home, he sends Sawyer after Doctor Pillsbury and sits down to read his mail. One of his letters is from his builder and confirms his fears about the recent strike, delaying the building of his house. When Sawyer returns with the doctor, Julian hears that Doctor Pillsbury is leaving the city that evening. He is slower than usual in losing consciousness, but finally falls asleep. Julian West hears people talking above him as he comes to consciousness. A woman is urging a man not to tell him something. The man agrees that he will try to avoid it. That woman and another woman leave the room just as he is opening his eyes. He sees a man in his sixties, who says he is a doctor and claims that Julian has just come out of a trance. The doctor tries to get some information from him, in particular, the date on which he fell asleep. After a great deal of confusion, he learns from his new host that it is September 10, 2000 and that he has slept for over 113 years. Hearing this news, he falls back asleep. When he wakes up, he looks at his host closely. He thinks that this must be a practical joke, but looking at his host, he sees that this man does not look like the sort to play such a trick. The doctor tells him that the fact that he slept for so long is unlikely, but not improbable, given what they know of the trance state. It allows a person's bodily functions to be suspended so that no body tissue is wasted. The doctor tells him that he had been found in the hermetically sealed room. The doctor had been planning to build a laboratory beside his house so that he could conduct chemical experiments, and a flood had uncovered the vault where Julian West was sleeping. The doctor had summoned his colleagues when he found Mr. West, thinking he was dead, but he refused to let them conduct experiments on him. (They had wanted to learn how he had been so perfectly preserved.) The doctor had resuscitated Mr. West and waited for him to wake up. Julian West gets up to look at himself in the mirror. He does not look a day older. He begins to get angry, thinking the doctor is part of a terrible joke being played on him. The doctor tells him to come upstairs so that he can see for himself that he is in the twentieth century. They go to the top of the house and look out over the city. Julian West sees a fine city with wide streets, parks, fountains and buildings. He sees the Charles River and Boston harbor, and then he knows that he has been told the truth.

