Tono-Bungay - H. G. Wells (my reading book txt) 📗

clergyman was as simple and honest as the day. My uncle was simply generalising about his class.

But it may have been these talks that set loose some long dormant string of ideas in my uncle’s brain, ideas the things of this world had long suppressed and hidden altogether. Near the end he suddenly became clearminded and lucid, albeit very weak, and his voice was little, but clear.

“George,” he said.

“I’m here,” I said, “close beside you.”

“George. You have always been responsible for the science. George. You know better than I do. Is⁠—Is it proved?”

“What proved?”

“Either way?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Death ends all. After so much⁠—Such splendid beginnin’s. Somewhere. Something.”

I stared at him amazed. His sunken eyes were very grave.

“What do you expect?” I said in wonder.

He would not answer. “Aspirations,” he whispered. He fell into a broken monologue, regardless of me. “Trailing clouds of glory,” he said, and “first-rate poet, first-rate.⁠ ⁠… George was always hard. Always.”

For a long time there was silence.

Then he made a gesture that he wished to speak.

“Seems to me, George⁠—”

I bent my head down, and he tried to lift his hand to my shoulder. I raised him a little on his pillows, and listened.

“It seems to me, George, always⁠—there must be something in me⁠—that won’t die.”

He looked at me as though the decision rested with me.

“I think,” he said; “⁠—something.”

Then, for a moment, his mind wandered. “Just a little link,” he whispered almost pleadingly, and lay quite still, but presently he was uneasy again.

“Some other world⁠—”

“Perhaps,” I said. “Who knows?”

“Some other world.”

“Not the same scope for enterprise,” I said. “No.”

He became silent. I sat leaning down to him, and following out my own thoughts, and presently the religieuse resumed her periodic conflict with the window fastening. For a time he struggled for breath.⁠ ⁠… It seemed such nonsense that he should have to suffer so⁠—poor silly little man!

“George,” he whispered, and his weak little hand came out. “Perhaps⁠—”

He said no more, but I perceived from the expression of his eyes that he thought the question had been put.

“Yes, I think so,” I said stoutly.

“Aren’t you sure?”

“Oh⁠—practically sure,” said I, and I think he tried to squeeze my hand. And there I sat, holding his hand tight, and trying to think what seeds of immortality could be found in all his being, what sort of ghost there was in him to wander out into the bleak immensities. Queer fancies came to me.⁠ ⁠… He lay still for a long time, save for a brief struggle or so for breath and ever and again I wiped his mouth and lips.

I fell into a pit of thought. I did not remark at first the change that was creeping over his face. He lay back on his pillow, made a faint zzzing sound that ceased, and presently and quite quietly he died⁠—greatly comforted by my assurance. I do not know when he died. His hand relaxed insensibly. Suddenly, with a start, with a shock, I found that his mouth had fallen open, and that he was dead.⁠ ⁠…

VIII

It was dark night when I left his deathbed and went back to my own inn down the straggling street of Luzon.

That return to my inn sticks in my memory also as a thing apart, as an experience apart. Within was a subdued bustle of women, a flitting of lights, and the doing of petty offices to that queer, exhausted thing that had once been my active and urgent little uncle. For me those offices were irksome and impertinent. I slammed the door, and went out into the warm, foggy drizzle of the village street lit by blurred specks of light in great voids of darkness, and never a soul abroad. That warm veil of fog produced an effect of vast seclusion. The very houses by the roadside peered through it as if from another world. The stillness of the night was marked by an occasional remote baying of dogs; all these people kept dogs because of the near neighbourhood of the frontier.

Death!

It was one of those rare seasons of relief, when for a little time one walks a little outside of and beside life. I felt as I sometimes feel after the end of a play. I saw the whole business of my uncle’s life as something familiar and completed. It was done, like a play one leaves, like a book one closes. I thought of the push and the promotions, the noise of London, the crowded, various company of people through which our lives had gone, the public meetings, the excitements, the dinners and disputations, and suddenly it appeared to me that none of these things existed. It came to me like a discovery that none of these things existed. Before and after I have thought and called life a phantasmagoria, but never have I felt its truth as I did that night.⁠ ⁠… We had parted; we two who had kept company so long had parted. But there was, I knew, no end to him or me. He had died a dream death, and ended a dream; his pain dream was over. It seemed to me almost as though I had died, too. What did it matter, since it was unreality, all of it, the pain and desire, the beginning and the end? There was no reality except this solitary road, this quite solitary road, along which one went rather puzzled, rather tired.⁠ ⁠…

Part of the fog became a big mastiff that came towards me and stopped and slunk round me, growling, barked gruffly, and shortly and presently became fog again.

My mind swayed back to the ancient beliefs and fears of our race. My doubts and disbeliefs slipped from me like a loosely fitting garment. I wondered quite simply what dogs bayed about the path of that other walker in the darkness, what shapes, what lights, it might be, loomed about him as he went his way from our last encounter on earth⁠—along the paths that are real, and the way that