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When the Sleeper Wakes-Part1_H. G. WELLS (1866-1946)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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"the other thing. No man can keep sane if

night after night--"



"Have you been walking along this coast alone? "

"Yes."



"Silly sort of thing to do. If you'll excuse my

saying so. Alone! As you say; body fag is no cure



for brain fag. Who told you to? No wonder;

walking! And the sun on your head, heat, fag, solitude,



all the day long, and then, I suppose, you go to

bed and try very hard--eh?"



Isbister stopped short and looked at the sufferer

doubtfully.



"Look at these rocks!" cried the seated man with

a sudden force of gesture. "Look at that sea that



has shone and quivered there for ever! See the white

spume rush into darkness under that great cliff. And



this blue vault, with the blinding sun pouring from

the dome of it. It is your world. You accept it, you



rejoice in it. It warms and supports and delights you.

And for me--"



He turned his head and showed a ghastly face,

bloodshot pallid eyes and bloodless lips. He spoke



almost in a whisper. "It is the garment of my misery.

The whole world . . . is the garment of



my misery."

Isbister looked at all the wild beauty of the sunlit



cliffs about them and back to that face of despair

For a moment he was silent.



He started, and made a gesture of impatient rejection.

"You get a night's sleep," he said, "and you



won't see much misery out here. Take my word

for it."



He was quite sure now that this was a providential

encounter. Only half an hour ago he had been feeling



horribly bored. Here was employment the bare

thought of which was righteous self-applause. He



took possession forthwith. It seemed to him that the

first need of this exhausted being was companionship



He flung himself down on the steeply sloping turf

beside the motionless seated figure, and deployed



forthwith into a skirmishing line of gossip.

His hearer seemed to have lapsed into apathy;



he stared dismally seaward, and spoke only in answer

to Isbister's direct questions--and not to all of those



But he made no sign of objection to this benevolent

intrusion upon his despair.



In a helpless way he seemed even grateful, and

when presently Isbister, feeling that his unsupported



talk was losing vigour, suggested that they should

reascend the steep and return towards Boscastle,



alleging the view into Blackapit, he submitted quietly.

Halfway up he began talking to himself, and abruptly



turned a ghastly face on his helper. "What can be

happening?" he asked with a gaunt illustrative hand.



"What can be happening? Spin, spin, spin, spin. It

goes round and round, round and round for evermore."



He stood with his hand circling

"It's all right, old chap," said Isbister with the air



of an old friend. "Don't worry yourself. Trust to

me."



The man dropped his hand and turned again. They

went over the brow in single file and to the headland



beyond Penally, with the sleepless man gesticulating

ever and again, and speaking fragmentary things



concerning his whirling brain. At the headland they

stood for a space by the seat that looks into the dark



mysteries of Blackapit, and then he sat down. Isbister

had resumed his talk whenever the path had widened



sufficiently for them to walk abreast. He was enlarging

upon the complex difficulty of making Boscastle



Harbour in bad weather, when suddenly and quite

irrelevantly his companion interrupted him again.



"My head is not like what it was," he said, gesticulating

for want of expressive phrases. "It's not like






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