Short Fiction - H. G. Wells (funny books to read .TXT) š
- Author: H. G. Wells
Book online Ā«Short Fiction - H. G. Wells (funny books to read .TXT) šĀ». Author H. G. Wells
āEh?ā said Wish, suddenly sitting up in his chair.
āWhat?ā said Clayton.
āBeing transparentā ācouldnāt avoid telling the truthā āI donāt see it,ā said Wish.
āI donāt see it,ā said Clayton, with inimitable assurance. āBut it is so, I can assure you nevertheless. I donāt believe he got once a nailās breadth off the Bible truth. He told me how he had been killedā āhe went down into a London basement with a candle to look for a leakage of gasā āand described himself as a senior English master in a London private school when that release occurred.ā
āPoor wretch!ā said I.
āThatās what I thought, and the more he talked the more I thought it. There he was, purposeless in life and purposeless out of it. He talked of his father and mother and his schoolmaster, and all who had ever been anything to him in the world, meanly. He had been too sensitive, too nervous; none of them had ever valued him properly or understood him, he said. He had never had a real friend in the world, I think; he had never had a success. He had shirked games and failed examinations. āItās like that with some people,ā he said; āwhenever I got into the examination-room or anywhere everything seemed to go.ā Engaged to be married of courseā āto another oversensitive person, I supposeā āwhen the indiscretion with the gas escape ended his affairs. āAnd where are you now?ā I asked. āNot inā ā?ā
āHe wasnāt clear on that point at all. The impression he gave me was of a sort of vague, intermediate state, a special reserve for souls too nonexistent for anything so positive as either sin or virtue. I donāt know. He was much too egotistical and unobservant to give me any clear idea of the kind of place, kind of country, there is on the other side of things. Wherever he was, he seems to have fallen in with a set of kindred spirits: ghosts of weak Cockney young men, who were on a footing of Christian names, and among these there was certainly a lot of talk about āgoing hauntingā and things like that. Yesā āgoing haunting! They seemed to think āhauntingā a tremendous adventure, and most of them funked it all the time. And so primed, you know, he had come.ā
āBut really!ā said Wish to the fire.
āThese are the impressions he gave me, anyhow,ā said Clayton, modestly. āI may, of course, have been in a rather uncritical state, but that was the sort of background he gave to himself. He kept flitting up and down, with his thin voice going talking, talking about his wretched self, and never a word of clear, firm statement from first to last. He was thinner and sillier and more pointless than if he had been real and alive. Only then, you know, he would not have been in my bedroom hereā āif he had been alive. I should have kicked him out.ā
āOf course,ā said Evans, āthere are poor mortals like that.ā
āAnd thereās just as much chance of their having ghosts as the rest of us,ā I admitted.
āWhat gave a sort of point to him, you know, was the fact that he did seem within limits to have found himself out. The mess he had made of haunting had depressed him terribly. He had been told it would be a ālarkā; he had come expecting it to be a ālark,ā and here it was, nothing but another failure added to his record! He proclaimed himself an utter out-and-out failure. He said, and I can quite believe it, that he had never tried to do anything all his life that he hadnāt made a perfect mess ofā āand through all the wastes of eternity he never would. If he had had sympathy, perhapsā āHe paused at that, and stood regarding me. He remarked that, strange as it might seem to me, nobody, not anyone, ever, had given him the amount of sympathy I was doing now. I could see what he wanted straight away, and I determined to head him off at once. I may be a brute, you know, but being the only real friend, the recipient of the confidences of one of these egotistical weaklings, ghost or body, is beyond my physical endurance. I got up briskly. āDonāt you brood on these things too much,ā I said. āThe thing youāve got to do is to get out of this get out of thisā āsharp. You pull yourself together and try.ā āI canāt,ā he said. āYou try,ā I said, and try he did.ā
āTry!ā said Sanderson. āHow?ā
āPasses,ā said Clayton.
āPasses?ā
āComplicated series of gestures and passes with the hands. Thatās how he had come in and thatās how he had to get out again. Lord! what a business I had!ā
āBut how could any series of passesā ā?ā I began.
āMy dear man,ā said Clayton, turning on me and putting a great emphasis on certain words, āyou want everything clear. I donāt know how. All I know is that you doā āthat he did, anyhow, at least. After a fearful time, you know, he got his passes right and suddenly disappeared.ā
āDid you,ā said Sanderson, slowly, āobserve the passes?ā
āYes,ā said Clayton, and seemed to think. āIt was tremendously queer,ā he said. āThere we were, I and this thin vague ghost, in that silent room, in this silent, empty inn, in this silent little Friday-night town. Not a sound except our voices and a faint panting he made when he swung. There was the bedroom candle, and one candle
Comments (0)