Dystopian Novels of H. G. Wells. H. G. Wells
Читать онлайн книгу.
in that strange condition, inert and still — neither dead nor living but, as it were, suspended, hanging midway between nothingness and existence. His was a darkness unbroken by a ray of thought or sensation, a dreamless inanition, a vast space of peace. The tumult of his mind had swelled and risen to an abrupt climax of silence. Where was the man? Where is any man when insensibility takes hold of him?
“It seems only yesterday,” said Isbister. “I remember it all as though it happened yesterday — clearer, perhaps, than if it had happened yesterday.”
It was the Isbister of the last chapter, but he was no longer a young man. The hair that had been brown and a trifle in excess of the fashionable length, was iron grey and clipped close, and the face that had been pink and white was buff and ruddy. He had a pointed beard shot with grey. He talked to an elderly man who wore a summer suit of drill (the summer of that year was unusually hot). This was Warming, a London solicitor and next of kin to Graham, the man who had fallen into the trance. And the two men stood side by side in a room in a house in London regarding his recumbent figure.
It was a yellow figure lying lax upon a waterbed and clad in a flowing shirt, a figure with a shrunken face and a stubby beard, lean limbs and lank nails, and about it was a case of thin glass. This glass seemed to mark off the sleeper from the reality of life about him, he was a thing apart, a strange, isolated abnormality. The two men stood close to the glass, peering in.
“The thing gave me a shock,” said Isbister. “I feel a queer sort of surprise even now when I think of his white eyes. They were white, you know, rolled up. Coming here again brings it all back to me.”
“Have you never seen him since that time?” asked Warming.
“Often wanted to come,” said Isbister; “but business nowadays is too serious a thing for much holiday keeping. I’ve been in America most of the time.”
“If I remember rightly,” said Warming, “you were an artist?”
“Was. And then I became a married man. I saw it was all up with black and white, very soon — at least for a mediocrity, and I jumped on to process. Those posters on the Cliffs at Dover are by my people.”
“Good posters,” admitted the solicitor, “though I was sorry to see them there.”
“Last as long as the cliffs, if necessary,” exclaimed Isbister with satisfaction. “The world changes. When he fell asleep, twenty years ago, I was down at Boscastle with a box of watercolours and a noble, oldfashioned ambition. I didn’t expect that some day my pigments would glorify the whole blessed coast of England, from Land’s End round again to the Lizard. Luck comes to a man very often when he’s not looking.”
Warming seemed to doubt the quality of the luck. “I just missed seeing you, if I recollect aright.”
“You came back by the trap that took me to Camelford railway station. It was close on the Jubilee, Victoria’s Jubilee, because I remember the seats and flags in Westminster, and the row with the cabman at Chelsea.”
“The Diamond Jubilee, it was,” said Warming; “the second one.”
“Ah, yes! At the proper Jubilee — the Fifty Year affair — I was down at Wookey — a boy. I missed all that…. What a fuss we had with him! My landlady wouldn’t take him in, wouldn’t let him stay — he looked so queer when he was rigid. We had to carry him in a chair up to the hotel. And the Boscastle doctor — it wasn’t the present chap, but the G.P. before him — was at him until nearly two, with me and the landlord holding lights and so forth.”
“Do you mean — he was stiff and hard?”
“Stiff! — wherever you bent him he stuck. You might have stood him on his head and he’d have stopped. I never saw such stiffness. Of course this” — he indicated the prostrate figure by a movement of his head — “is quite different. And the little doctor — what was his name?”
“Smithers?”
“Smithers it was — was quite wrong in trying to fetch him round too soon, according to all accounts. The things he did! Even now it makes me feel all — ugh! Mustard, snuff, pricking. And one of those beastly little things, not dynamos — “
“Coils.”
“Yes. You could see his muscles throb and jump, and he twisted about. There were just two flaring yellow candles, and all the shadows were shivering, and the little doctor nervous and putting on side, and him — stark and squirming in the most unnatural ways. Well, it made me dream.”
Pause.
“It’s a strange state,” said Warming.
“It’s a sort of complete absence,” said Isbister. “Here’s the body, empty. Not dead a bit, and yet not alive. It’s like a seat vacant and marked ‘engaged.’ No feeling, no digestion, no beating of the heart — not a flutter. That doesn’t make me feel as if there was a man present. In a sense it’s more dead than death, for these doctors tell me that even the hair has stopped growing. Now with the proper dead, the hair will go on growing — “
“I know,” said Warming, with a flash of pain in his expression.
They peered through the glass again. Graham was indeed in a strange state, in the flaccid phase of a trance, but a trance unprecedented in medical history. Trances had lasted for as much as a year before — but at the end of that time it had ever been a waking or a death; sometimes first one and then the other. Isbister noted the marks the physicians had made in injecting nourishment, for that had been resorted to to postpone collapse; he pointed them out to Warming, who had been trying not to see them.
“And while he has been lying here,” said Isbister, with the zest of a life freely spent, “I have changed my plans in life; married, raised a family, my eldest lad — I hadn’t begun to think of sons then — is an American citizen, and looking forward to leaving Harvard. There’s a touch of grey in my hair. And this man, not a day older nor wiser (practically) than I was in my downy days. It’s curious to think of.”
Warming turned. “And I have grown old too. I played cricket with him when I was still only a boy. And he looks a young man still. Yellow perhaps. But that is a young man nevertheless.”
“And there’s been the War,” said Isbister.
“From beginning to end.”
“And these Martians.”
“I’ve understood,” said Isbister after a pause, “that he had some moderate property of his own?”
“That is so,” said Warming. He coughed primly. “As it happens — I have charge of it.”
“Ah!” Isbister thought, hesitated and spoke: “No doubt — his keep here is not expensive — no doubt it will have improved — accumulated?”
“It has. He will wake up very much better off — if he wakes — than when he slept.”
“As a business man,” said Isbister, “that thought has naturally been in my mind. I have, indeed, sometimes thought that, speaking commercially, of course, this sleep may be a very good thing for him. That he knows what he is about, so to speak, in being insensible so long. If he had lived straight on — “
“I doubt if he would have premeditated as much,” said Warming. “He was not a far-sighted man. In fact — “
“Yes?”
“We differed on that point. I stood to him somewhat in the relation of a guardian. You have probably seen enough of affairs to recognise that occasionally a certain friction — . But even if that was the case, there is a doubt whether he will ever wake. This sleep exhausts slowly, but it exhausts. Apparently he is sliding slowly, very slowly and tediously, down a long slope, if you can understand me?”
“It will be a pity to lose his surprise. There’s been a lot of change these twenty years. It’s Rip Van Winkle come real.”
“There