The Sleeper Awakes<br />A Revised Edition of When the Sleeper Wakes by H. G. Wells (debian ebook reader TXT) 📖

warfare might pour into this silent quarter of the city and seize upon him again. It behoved him to learn all he could while there was time. He turned suddenly to the old man with a question and left it unsaid. But his motion moved the old man to speech again.

“Eh! but how things work together!” said the old man. “This Sleeper that all the fools put their trust in! I’ve the whole history of it—I was always a good one for histories. When I was a boy—I’m that old—I used to read printed books. You’d hardly think it. Likely you’ve seen none—they rot and dust so—and the Sanitary Company burns them to make ashlarite. But they were convenient in their dirty way. One learnt a lot. These new-fangled Babble Machines—they don’t seem new-fangled to you, eh?—they’re easy to hear, easy to forget. But I’ve traced all the Sleeper business from the first.”

“You will scarcely believe it,” said Graham slowly, “I’m so ignorant—I’ve been so preoccupied in my own little affairs, my circumstances have been so odd—I know nothing of this Sleeper’s history. Who was he?”

“Eh!” said the old man. “I know, I know. He was a poor nobody, and set on a playful woman, poor soul! And he fell into a trance. There’s the old things they had, those brown things—silver photographs—still showing him as he lay, a gross and a half years ago—a gross and a half of years.”

“Set on a playful woman, poor soul,” said Graham softly to himself, and then aloud, “Yes—well go on.”

“You must know he had a cousin named Warming, a solitary man without children, who made a big fortune speculating in roads—the first Eadhamite roads. But surely you’ve heard? No? Why? He bought all the patent rights and made a big company. In those days there were grosses of grosses of separate businesses and business companies. Grosses of grosses! His roads killed the railroads—the old things—in two dozen years; he bought up and Eadhamited the tracks. And because he didn’t want to break up his great property or let in shareholders, he left it all to the Sleeper, and put it under a Board of Trustees that he had picked and trained. He knew then the Sleeper wouldn’t wake, that he would go on sleeping, sleeping till he died. He knew that quite well! And plump! a man in the United States, who had lost two sons in a boat accident, followed that up with another great bequest. His trustees found themselves with a dozen myriads of lions’-worth or more of property at the very beginning.”

“What was his name?”

“Graham.”

“No—I mean—that American’s.”

“Isbister.”

“Isbister!” cried Graham. “Why, I don’t even know the name.”

“Of course not,” said the old man. “Of course not. People don’t learn much in the schools nowadays. But I know all about him. He was a rich American who went from England, and he left the Sleeper even more than Warming. How he made it? That I don’t know. Something about pictures by machinery. But he made it and left it, and so the Council had its start. It was just a council of trustees at first.”

“And how did it grow?”

“Eh!—but you’re not up to things. Money attracts money—and twelve brains are better than one. They played it cleverly. They worked politics with money, and kept on adding to the money by working currency and tariffs. They grew—they grew. And for years the twelve trustees hid the growing of the Sleeper’s estate under double names and company titles and all that. The Council spread by title deed, mortgage, share, every political party, every newspaper they bought. If you listen to the old stories you will see the Council growing and growing. Billions and billions of lions at last—the Sleeper’s estate. And all growing out of a whim—out of this Warming’s will, and an accident to Isbister’s sons.

“Men are strange,” said the old man. “The strange thing to me is how the Council worked together so long. As many as twelve. But they worked in cliques from the first. And they’ve slipped back. In my young days speaking of the Council was like an ignorant man speaking of God. We didn’t think they could do wrong. We didn’t know of their women and all that! Or else I’ve got wiser.

“Men are strange,” said the old man. “Here are you, young and ignorant, and me—sevendy years old, and I might reasonably before getting—explaining it all to you short and clear.

“Sevendy,” he said, “sevendy, and I hear and see—hear better than I see. And reason clearly, and keep myself up to all the happenings of things. Sevendy!

“Life is strange. I was twaindy before Ostrog was a baby. I remember him long before he’d pushed his way to the head of the Wind Vanes Control. I’ve seen many changes. Eh! I’ve worn the blue. And at last I’ve come to see this crush and darkness and tumult and dead men carried by in heaps on the ways. And all his doing! All his doing!”

His voice died away in scarcely articulate praises of Ostrog.

Graham thought. “Let me see,” he said, “if I have it right.”

He extended a hand and ticked off points upon his fingers. “The Sleeper has been asleep—”

“Changed,” said the old man.

“Perhaps. And meanwhile the Sleeper’s property grew in the hands of Twelve Trustees, until it swallowed up nearly all the great ownership of the world. The Twelve Trustees—by virtue of this property have become masters of the world. Because they are the paying power—just as the old English Parliament used to be—”

“Eh!” said the old man. “That’s so—that’s a good comparison. You’re not so—”

“And now this Ostrog—has suddenly revolutionised the world by waking the Sleeper—whom no one but the superstitious, common people had ever dreamt would wake again—raising the Sleeper to claim his property from the Council, after all these years.”

The old man endorsed this statement with a cough. “It’s strange,” he said, “to meet a man who learns these things for the first time to-night.”

“Aye,” said Graham, “it’s strange.”

“Have you been in a Pleasure City?” said the old man. “All my life I’ve longed—” He laughed. “Even now,” he said, “I could enjoy a little fun. Enjoy seeing things, anyhow.” He mumbled a sentence Graham did not understand.

“The Sleeper—when did he awake?” said Graham suddenly.

“Three days ago.”

“Where is he?”

“Ostrog has him. He escaped from the Council not four hours ago. My dear sir, where were you at the time? He was in the hall of the markets—where the fighting has been. All the city was screaming about it. All the Babble Machines. Everywhere it was shouted. Even the fools who speak for the Council were admitting it. Everyone was rushing off to see him—everyone was getting arms. Were you drunk or asleep? And even then! But you’re joking! Surely you’re pretending. It was to stop the shouting of the