Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you donât realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. When the Sleeper Wakes by H. G. Wells (top romance novels txt) đ
- Author: H. G. Wells
Book online «When the Sleeper Wakes by H. G. Wells (top romance novels txt) đ». Author H. G. Wells
There was a brief pause. âThereâs a silly thing to say, sir, if youâll excuse me. It might get you into trouble in a time like this,â said the old man. Graham, slightly dashed, repeated his assertion.
âI was saying I was the Sleeper. That years and years ago I did, indeed, fall asleep, in a little stonebuilt 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 IâI who speak to youâwho awakened again these four days since.â
âFour days since!âthe Sleeper! But theyâve got the Sleeper. They have him and they wonât let him go. Nonsense! Youâve 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 wonât let him go about alone. Trust them. Youâre a queer fellow. One of these fun pokers. I see now why you have been clipping your words so oddly, butââ
He stopped abruptly, and Graham could see his gesture.
âAs if Ostrog would let the Sleeper run about alone! No, youâre telling that to the wrong man altogether. Eh! as if I should believe. Whatâs your game? And besides, weâve been talking of the Sleeper.â
Graham stood up. âListen,â he said. âI am the Sleeper.â
âYouâre an odd man,â said the old man, âto sit here in the dark, talking clipped, and telling a lie of that sort. Butââ
Grahamâs exasperation fell to laughter. âIt is preposterous,â he cried. âPreposterous. The dream must end. It gets wilder and wilder. Here am Iâin this damned twilightâI never knew a dream in twilight beforeâan anachronism by two hundred years and trying to persuade an old fool that I am myself, and meanwhileâUgh!â
He moved in gusty irritation and went striding. In a moment the old man was pursuing him. âEh! but donât go!â cried the old man. âIâm an old fool, I know. Donât go. Donât leave me in all this darkness.â
Graham hesitated, stopped. Suddenly the folly of telling his secret flashed into his mind.
âI didnât mean to offend youâdisbelieving you,â said the old man coming near. âItâs no manner of harm. Call yourself the Sleeper if it pleases you. âTis a foolish trick.â
Graham hesitated, turned abruptly and went on his way.
For a time he heard the old manâs 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. âHave you heard?â he said.
âNo!â said Graham starting.
âNear a dozand,â said the man, âa dozand men!â and hurried on.
A number of men and a girl passed in the darkness, gesticulating and shouting: âCapitulated! Given up!â âA dozand of men.â âTwo dozand of men.â âOstrog, Hurrah! Ostrog, Hurrah!â 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 âniggerâ 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 manâs 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 âwind-vane offices,â whatever the âwind-vane officesâ might be. His first enquiry simply resulted in a direction to go on towards Westminster. His second led to the discovery of a short cut in which he was speedily lost. He was told to leave the ways to which he had hitherto confined himself knowing no other means of transitâand to plunge down one of the middle staircases into the blackness of a crossway. Thereupon came some trivial adventures; chief of these an ambiguous encounter with a gruff-voiced invisible creature speaking in a strange dialect that seemed at first a strange tongue, a thick flow of speech with the drifting corpses of English words therein, the dialect of the latter-day vile. Then another voice drew near, a girlâs voice singing, âtralala tralala.â She spoke to Graham, her English touched with something of the same quality. She professed to have lost her sister, she blundered needlessly into him he thought, caught hold of him and laughed. But a word of vague remonstrance sent her into the unseen again.
The sounds about him increased. Stumbling people passed him, speaking excitedly. âThey have surrendered!â âThe Council! Surely not the Council!â âThey are saying so in the Ways.â The passage seemed wider. Suddenly the wall fell away. He was in a great space and people were stirring remotely. He inquired his way of an indistinct figure. âStrike straight across,â said a womanâs voice. He left his guiding wall, and in a moment had stumbled against a little table on which were utensils of glass. Grahamâs eyes, now attuned to darkness, made out a long vista with pallid tables on either side. He went down this. At one or two of the tables he heard a clang of glass and a sound of eating. There were people then cool enough to dine, or daring enough to steal a meal in spite of social convulsion and darkness. Far off and high up he presently saw a pallid light of a semi-circular shape. As he approached this, a black edge came up and hid it. He stumbled at steps and found himself in a gallery. He heard a sobbing, and found two scared little girls crouched by a railing. These children became silent at the near sound of feet. He tried to console them, but they were very still until he left them. Then as he receded he could hear them sobbing again.
Presently he found himself at the foot of a staircase and near a wide opening. He saw a dim twilight above this and ascended out of the blackness into a street of moving Ways again. Along this a disorderly swarm of people marched shouting. They were singing snatches of the song of the revolt, most of them out of tune. Here and there torches flared
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