PREFACE

It is now one week since the termination of the extraordinary adventure which happened to me in this, the third week in November 1929. Every detail, even to the least conversation is clear in my memory as I start to set down my strange revelation. I, John Bogardus, graduate of Harvard and Oxford, descendant of a virile patroon ancestry, now in my thirty-second year make this record, that my fellow men, at present supinely indifferent to the alarming portent of the feminist uprising, may perceive before it is too late, the hideous catastrophe toward which in the relentless war of the sexes we are blindly drifting.

On the fifteenth of November I had sought refuge at my club in the company of my old friend Dr. Sachaloff, a biologist in the —— Foundation, whose propensity to think out loud had proved exceedingly irritating to the mediocrity of his associates.

We had lunched and wined in a manner befitting the cellar inherited from my paternal grandfather, and luncheon over, the conversation had run along lines of scientific speculation into the future of society and the possibilities of the prolongation of life. Dr. Sachaloff, sure of my confidence, had permitted his imagination the unpardonable scientific liberty of prophecy. He declared that while the complete conquest of the natural processes of decay must still be regarded as an impossibility, still, with the elimination of present scourges and a fuller control of the glandular sources of energy, theoretically (a word which he pronounced with deliberate emphasis) the span of life might eventually be prolonged from two to three hundred years. However, he qualified this audacity by adding that the birth of new diseases must be reckoned with. I immediately broached an idea which had been long in my mind.

“If,” I began eagerly, “organic bodies can be kept long periods free from decomposition by freezing processes and human beings thrown into a cataleptic state which so nearly resembles death as to defy the acutest observer, why couldn’t a man by some induced hypnotic catalepsy be then subjected to an intense refrigeration and kept alive in cold storage over a long period of years?”

“Port like this,” said Dr. Sachaloff raising his glass to the light, “is a great stimulation to the imagination.”

“Come now—” I replied with a wheedling smile, “in a mood of pure speculation?”

“Do you want to have me deported from the country, John?”

“But what about the mystery of hibernation,” I persisted. “Is that not a similar arrestation of life? Curious in the larger forms of animal life, more and more inexplicable as we descend into the reptiles and bacterial phenomena.”

“Strange you should have mentioned hibernation,” he said with an expression in his eyes that struck me. I taxed him with concealing his real opinion.

“What is true to any form of life may be possible to all,” I continued. “We need not accept all the stories of toads being shut up for ten—twenty years, but the authentic records are startling enough.”

“Very.”

“And is not hibernation a state of induced catalepsy—self hypnotism if you will?”

He admitted at last with a glance over his shoulder that, theoretically (again he dwelt on the word) there was ground for speculation. Then having sworn me into secrecy, he disclosed to me that he had long considered the problem, that in fact he had constructed a machine with which he intended to conduct certain experimental tests with animals. The hypnotic state of catalepsy, he explained, was really so essential that unless some human being could be induced to make the experiment he had doubts of arriving at any conclusions of significance.

“What a pity you are young, happily married and possessed of an excellent liver,” he concluded looking at me hungrily. “Think what it would be to wake up in another century.”

I rose with a chill in my back, exclaiming:

“Sachaloff, you are serious!”

“Theoretically, theoretically,” he mumbled.

“But does such a machine exist?” I asked doubtfully, knowing his reputation as a practical joker.

“Come tomorrow to the laboratory, and see for yourself.”

“Would it be safe?” I exclaimed laughing.

“Come armed then,” he replied smiling. “However, John,” he continued glancing at the table, “your wine was good, too good. Remember that the conversation was not serious.”

“Except theoretically.”

“Quite so. Quite so.”

I left the Club about four o’clock and proceeded homeward by way of Park Avenue. I had hardly gone a block when a familiar voice called me and I looked up into the charming eyes of Kitty Dalgleesh.

“Why, John, you were in the clouds,” she exclaimed laughingly. “What can be worrying you, the happily married man?”

“Perhaps I was worrying about you,” I said maliciously, for I was sensitive to the jibes of my friends at my complete and astonishing domestication.

“How so?”

“You are approaching a dreadful spinsterhood.”

“How nasty. Just because I wouldn’t rush into marriage with you?”

My eyebrows went up at this impertinence, but Kitty was irresistible with her dimple and I yielded to temptation.

“Seriously, why don’t you start marrying?” I said drawing her arm through mine.

“Seriously, I have never found anyone I liked better than you.”

“I tried to convince you of that—you remember.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t marry Ernesta. You’d have been only a lady’s maid, Ernesta is too publicly brilliant for you. But I didn’t foresee sister Emelia.” She thought a moment, “You look disconcertingly happy. It’s quite discouraging.”

“How you must suffer!”

“Just because I didn’t want to marry you, then and there, doesn’t mean I didn’t love you, John.”

“I perceive my cue.”

“Oh, no. I’m not starting a flirtation with you,” she said disengaging her arm. “I might have if you were unhappy. However, one word of advice,—for your own good.”

“What now?”

“Beware! You have married two mothers-in-law, mother and sister. Dear me, you don’t seem to respond. You are happy, John. I’m running away.”

The suggestion that Kitty had artfully implanted in my imagination disturbed me though I tried to shake it off. It was in line with my own growing forebodings.

When I entered my home, I found tea spread and a group of women listening to Mrs. Agatha Billings laying down the daily law with occasional sallies from Ernesta. My mother-in-law is a woman of terrific dignity; calmly impressive as the classic portraits of Martha Washington whom she resembles. Ernesta is a young Amazon, who leads parades of protest on horseback, who writes Latin poetry, has taken her bar examination and spends five thousand a year on her clothes.

Mrs. Billings was sitting like a statue of Memnon, planted in her opinions, and remaining thus rigidly entrenched gestured only with her fingers. Ernesta, on the contrary, strode up and down, using her hands like an Italian, throwing off her arguments like the brilliant cadenza of a coloratura soprano. Emelia, my wife, listened modestly but rapturously. There were present the militant Mrs. Zanzigger, head of an impressive concentration of women’s clubs and two stern faced delegates, with heavy wrinkled boots, from affiliated societies across the sea.

I excused myself wearily and slipped into a further library where I could hear but not be seen. On the table, placed there for my education, were the works of Bertrand Russell, Elinor Keyes, Havelocke Ellis, and the whole gamut of the psycho-analysts. I took up a volume, concentrated, yawned and put it down.

The voice of my mother-in-law coldly irritant rose from the other room.

“The history of society wherever we study it profoundly is simply the record of the warfare of the sexes. No wonder then that marriage must remain the battle ground.”

“But,” objected Mrs. Zanzigger, who was militant but not advanced, “in modern marriage, with equal division of economic responsibility and a common standard of moral judgment, isn’t an intellectual companionship possible?”

“After sixty, perhaps,” interrupted Ernesta. “But where sex is involved it is inevitable that each through the instinct of jealousy and possession will always seek to limit the liberty of the other. You can never change the essential quality of marriage. What we must look forward to is the shifting of authorities. Man-made marriage is a failure. The salvation of society is in the future of woman.”

“The salvation of civilization, of all economic and political reform is in the true development of woman,” corrected my mother-in-law in her coldly treble voice.

“Yes, Mamma,” said Ernesta. “I was coming to that.”

“Mrs. Billings is right, quite right,” broke in a guttural Scandinavian voice. “Society has gone as far as it can go under the man era. All men understand is the instinct they were born with, to wrestle and claw and fight down one another.”

I yawned again and peeped into the pages of “Marriage and Morals.” I knew the arguments by heart....

“But how can we do without them?” said Mrs. Zanzigger faintly.

“What becomes of men is unimportant,” said Ernesta parading the floor. “They will return to their clubs probably. The woman’s movement has only just begun. Suffrage is the first step. What are we going to do with marriage, with the home, with the children? Is woman to remain an adjunct or free herself as a completed individuality? We must destroy all traditional inhibitions; the fear complexes that are holding her back. We must make her look on herself not as man’s equal but as man’s superior.”

“If the children are to be kept in the home,” said the guttural voice, “what then?”

“Then the man must look after them,” said Ernesta to the accompaniment of a ripple of laughter. “The age of physical force is over. The age of intellect is coming. Only physical force has kept woman as the mistress of man and the nurse of his children. When machinery has neutralized muscle, a woman will be able to run the machinery as well as man.”

“Our program should be political action, to enlarge our economic progress,” said Mrs. Billings. “We should always have in view, as Ernesta has correctly expressed my views, that ahead of us is the dawn of a higher civilization, freed from old superstitions and based on logic and scientific readjustments. Only women have the imagination and courage to bring that about.”

After this I heard only confusedly, my head must have begun to nod, for sounds and forms became confused and my book slid to the floor.

All at once—a brilliant light seemed to play about me. I started up and found myself on a stretcher in the laboratory of my friend Dr. Sachaloff, with two white clad nurses bending over me. My friend came over.

“Well, John, if you still wish to back out, this is your last chance. Everything is ready. You’ve stood the preliminary tests astonishingly well. Heart action, liver, blood and respiration, perfect. Do you feel any discomfort?”

“Not the slightest.”

“I’ve had you in a cataleptic state for just eight hours at a temperature as low as forty degrees. The thing is practically possible without a doubt. Is it all aboard for the twenty-first century?”

I found myself replying as though perfectly conscious of an ulterior decision.

“I wouldn’t change places with you for the world. On with the great adventure!”

“Bon voyage, you lucky dog!” said Sachaloff grasping my hand. “Now look me fixedly in the eyes, so.”

I saw the steely eyes, through the bushy dark whiskers, felt a sudden pain from the pressure of the fingers on my brow and again all outlines became watery and evasive.

THE COMING OF THE AMAZONS

THE COMING OF THE AMAZONS