When the Sleeper Wakes. H. G. Wells

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       H. G. Wells

      When the Sleeper Wakes

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664137975

Table of Contents

       CHAPTER I. INSOMNIA

       CHAPTER II. THE TRANCE

       CHAPTER III. THE AWAKENING

       But Warming was wrong in that. An awakening came.

       CHAPTER IV. THE SOUND OF A TUMULT

       CHAPTER V. THE MOVING WAYS

       CHAPTER VI. THE HALL OF THE ATLAS

       CHAPTER VII. IN THE SILENT ROOMS

       CHAPTER VIII. THE ROOF SPACES

       CHAPTER IX. THE PEOPLE MARCH

       CHAPTER X. THE BATTLE OF THE DARKNESS

       CHAPTER XI. THE OLD MAN WHO KNEW EVERYTHING

       He was startled by a cough close at hand.

       CHAPTER XII. OSTROG

       CHAPTER XIII. THE END OF THE OLD ORDER

       CHAPTER XIV. FROM THE CROW’S NEST

       CHAPTER XV. PROMINENT PEOPLE

       CHAPTER XVI. THE AEROPHILE

       CHAPTER XVII. THREE DAYS

       CHAPTER XVIII. GRAHAM REMEMBERS

       CHAPTER XIX. OSTROG’S POINT OF VIEW

       CHAPTER XX. IN THE CITY WAYS

       CHAPTER XXI. THE UNDER SIDE

       CHAPTER XXII. THE STRUGGLE IN THE COUNCIL HOUSE

       CHAPTER XXIII. WHILE THE AEROPLANES WERE COMING

       CHAPTER XXIV. THE COMING OF THE AEROPLANES

CHAPTER I. INSOMNIA

       Table of Contents

      One afternoon, at low water, Mr. Isbister, a young artist lodging at Boscastle, walked from that place to the picturesque cove of Pentargen, desiring to examine the caves there. Halfway down the precipitous path to the Pentargen beach he came suddenly upon a man sitting in an attitude of profound distress beneath a projecting mass of rock. The hands of this man hung limply over his knees, his eyes were red and staring before him, and his face was wet with tears.

      He glanced round at Isbister’s footfall. Both men were disconcerted, Isbister the more so, and, to override the awkwardness of his involuntary pause, he remarked, with an air of mature conviction, that the weather was hot for the time of year.

      “Very,” answered the stranger shortly, hesitated a second, and added in a colourless tone, “I can’t sleep.”

      Isbister stopped abruptly. “No?” was all he said, but his bearing conveyed his helpful impulse.

      “It may sound incredible,” said the stranger, turning weary eyes to Isbister’s face and emphasizing his words with a languid hand, “but I have had no sleep—no sleep at all for six nights.”

      “Had advice?”

      “Yes. Bad advice for the most part. Drugs. My nervous system. … They are all very well for the run of people. It’s hard to explain. I dare not take … sufficiently powerful drugs.”

      “That makes it difficult,” said Isbister.

      He stood helplessly in the narrow path, perplexed what to do. Clearly the man wanted to talk. An idea natural enough under the circumstances, prompted him to keep the conversation going. “I’ve never suffered from sleeplessness myself,” he said in a tone of commonplace gossip, “but in those cases I have known, people have usually found something—”

      “I dare make no experiments.”

      He spoke wearily. He gave a gesture of rejection, and for a space both men were silent.

      “Exercise?” suggested Isbister diffidently, with a glance from his interlocutor’s face of wretchedness to the touring costume he wore.

      “That is what I have tried. Unwisely perhaps. I have followed the coast, day after day—from New Quay. It has only added muscular fatigue to the mental. The cause of this unrest was overwork—trouble. There was something—”

      He stopped as if from sheer fatigue. He rubbed his forehead with a lean hand. He resumed speech like one who talks to himself.

      “I am a lone wolf, a solitary man, wandering through a world in which I have no part. I am wifeless—childless—who is it speaks of the childless as the dead twigs on the tree of life? I am wifeless, I childless—I could find no duty to do. No desire even in my heart. One thing at last I set myself to do.

      “I said, I will do this, and to do it, to overcome the inertia of this dull body, I resorted to drugs. Great God, I’ve had enough of drugs! I don’t know if you feel the heavy inconvenience of the body, its exasperating demand of time from the mind—time—life! Live! We only live in patches. We have to eat, and then comes the dull digestive complacencies—or irritations. We have to take the air or else our thoughts grow sluggish, stupid, run into gulfs and blind alleys. A thousand distractions arise from within and without, and then comes drowsiness and sleep. Men seem to live for sleep. How little of a man’s