Dystopian Novels of H. G. Wells. H. G. Wells
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“I suppose there’s no chance of this Sleeper asserting himself. I suppose he’s certain to be a puppet — in Ostrog’s hands or the Council’s, as soon as the struggle is over.”
“In Ostrog’s hands — certainly. Why shouldn’t he be a puppet? Look at his position. Everything done for him, every pleasure possible. Why should he want to assert himself?”
“What are these Pleasure Cities?” said Graham, abruptly.
The old man made him repeat the question. When at last he was assured of Graham’s words, he nudged him violently. “That’s too much,” said he. “You’re poking fun at an old man. I’ve been suspecting you know more than you pretend.”
“Perhaps I do,” said Graham. “But no! why should I go on acting? No, I do not know what a Pleasure City is.”
The old man laughed in an intimate way.
“What is more, I do not know how to read your letters, I do not know what money you use, I do not know what foreign countries there are. I do not know where I am. I cannot count. I do not know where to get food, nor drink, nor shelter.”
“Come, come,” said the old man, “if you had a glass of drink now, would you put it in your ear or your eye?”
“I want you to tell me all these things.”
“He, he! Well, gentlemen who dress in silk must have their fun.” A withered hand caressed Graham’s arm for a moment. “Silk. Well, well! But, all the same, I wish I was the man who was put up as the Sleeper. He’ll have a fine time of it. All the pomp and pleasure. He’s a queer looking face. When they used to let anyone go to see him, I’ve got tickets and been. The image of the real one, as the photographs show him, this substitute used to be. Yellow. But he’ll get fed up. It’s a queer world. Think of the luck of it. The luck of it. I expect he’ll be sent to Capri. It’s the best fun for a greener.”
His cough overtook him again. Then he began mumbling enviously of pleasures and strange delights. “The luck of it, the luck of it! All my life I’ve been in London, hoping to get my chance.”
“But you don’t know that the Sleeper died,” said Graham, suddenly.
The old man made him repeat his words.
“Men don’t live beyond ten dozen. It’s not in the order of things,” said the old man. “I’m not a fool. Fools may believe it, but not me.”
Graham became angry with the old man’s assurance. “Whether you are a fool or not,” he said, “it happens you are wrong about the Sleeper.”
“Eh?”
“You are wrong about the Sleeper. I haven’t told you before, but I will tell you now. You are wrong about the Sleeper.”
“How do you know? I thought you didn’t know anything — not even about Pleasure Cities.”
Graham paused.
“You don’t know,” said the old man. “How are you to know? It’s very few men — “
“I am the Sleeper.”
He had to repeat it.
There was a brief pause. “There’s a silly thing to say, sir, if you’ll excuse me. It might get you into trouble in a time like this,” said the old man.
Graham, slightly dashed, repeated his assertion.
“I was saying I was the Sleeper. That years and years ago I did, indeed, fall asleep, in a little stone-built village, in the days when there were hedgerows, and villages, and inns, and all the countryside cut up into little pieces, little fields. Have you never heard of those days? And it is I — I who speak to you — who awakened again these four days since.”
“Four days since! — the Sleeper! But they’ve got the Sleeper. They have him and they won’t let him go. Nonsense! You’ve been talking sensibly enough up to now. I can see it as though I was there. There will be Lincoln like a keeper just behind him; they won’t let him go about alone. Trust them. You’re a queer fellow. One of these fun pokers. I see now why you have been clipping your words so oddly, but — “
He stopped abruptly, and Graham could see his gesture.
“As if Ostrog would let the Sleeper run about alone! No, you’re telling that to the wrong man altogether. Eh! as if I should believe. What’s your game? And besides, we’ve been talking of the Sleeper.”
Graham stood up. “Listen,” he said. “I am the Sleeper.”
“You’re an odd man,” said the old man, “to sit here in the dark, talking clipped, and telling a lie of that sort. But — “
Graham’s exasperation fell to laughter. “It is preposterous,” he cried. “Preposterous. The dream must end. It gets wilder and wilder. Here am I — in this damned twilight — I never knew a dream in twilight before — an anachronism by two hundred years and trying to persuade an old fool that I am myself, and meanwhile — Ugh!”
He moved in gusty irritation and went striding. In a moment the old man was pursuing him. “Eh! but don’t go!” cried the old man. “I’m an old fool, I know. Don’t go. Don’t leave me in all this darkness.”
Graham hesitated, stopped. Suddenly the folly of telling his secret flashed into his mind.
“I didn’t mean to offend you — disbelieving you,” said the old man coming near. “It’s no manner of harm. Call yourself the Sleeper if it pleases you. ‘Tis a foolish trick — “
Graham hesitated, turned abruptly and went on his way.
For a time he heard the old man’s hobbling pursuit and his wheezy cries receding. But at last the darkness swallowed him, and Graham saw him no more.
Chapter XII.
Ostrog
Graham could now take a clearer view of his position. For a long time yet he wandered, but after the talk of the old man his discovery of this Ostrog was clear in his mind as the final inevitable decision. One thing was evident, those who were at the headquarters of the revolt had succeeded very admirably in suppressing the fact of his disappearance. But every moment he expected to hear the report of his death or of his recapture by the Council.
Presently a man stopped before him. “Have you heard?” he said.
“No!” said Graham, starting.
“Near a dozand,” said the man, “a dozand men!” and hurried on.
A number of men and a girl passed in the darkness, gesticulating and shouting: “Capitulated! Given up!” “A dozand of men.” “Two dozand of men.” “Ostrog, Hurrah! Ostrog, Hurrah!” These cries receded, became indistinct.
Other shouting men followed. For a time his attention was absorbed in the fragments of speech he heard. He had a doubt whether all were speaking English. Scraps floated to him, scraps like Pigeon English, like “nigger” dialect, blurred and mangled distortions. He dared accost no one with questions. The impression the people gave him jarred altogether with his preconceptions of the struggle and confirmed the old man’s faith in Ostrog. It was only slowly he could bring himself to believe that all these people were rejoicing at the defeat of the Council, that the Council which had pursued him with such power and vigour was after all the weaker of the two sides in conflict. And if that was so, how did it affect him? Several times he hesitated on the verge of fundamental questions. Once he turned and walked for a long way after a little man of rotund inviting outline, but he was unable to master confidence to address him.
It was only slowly that it came to him that he might ask for the “wind-vane offices” whatever