When the Sleeper Wakes by H. G. Wells (latest books to read TXT) 📗

“Men are strange,” said the old man. “Here are you, young and ignorant, and me—sevendy years old, and I might reasonably be forgetting—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 virtually 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 tonight.”

“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 Babble Machines and prevent the people gathering that they turned off the electricity—and put this damned darkness upon us. Do you mean to say—?”

“I had heard the Sleeper was rescued,” said Graham. “But—to come back a minute. Are you sure Ostrog has him?”

“He won’t let him go,” said the old man.

“And the Sleeper. Are you sure he is not genuine? I have never heard—”

“So all the fools think. So they think. As if there wasn’t a thousand things that were never heard. I know Ostrog too well for that. Did I tell you? In a way I’m a sort of relation of Ostrog’s. A sort of relation. Through my daughter-in-law.”

“I suppose—”

“Well?”

“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.”