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When the Sleeper Wakes-Part28_H. G. WELLS (1866-1946)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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"I have tried," she said, "countless times--to

imagine those old romantic days. And to you they



are memories. How strange and crowded the world

must seem to you! I have seen photographs and pictures



of the old times, the little isolated houses built of

bricks made out of burnt mud and all black with soot



from your fires, the railway bridges, the simple

advertisements, the solemnsavage Puritanical men in



strange black coats and those tall hats of theirs, iron

railway trains on iron bridges overhead, horses and



cattle, and even dogs running half wild about the

streets. And suddenly, you have come into this!"



"Into this," said Graham.

"Out of your life--out of all that was familiar."



"The old life was not a happy one," said Graham.

"I do not regret that."



She looked at him quickly. There was a brief pause.

She sighed encouragingly. "No? "



"No," said Graham. "It was a little life--and

unmeaning. But this--. We thought the world



complex and crowded and civilised enough. Yet I see

--although in this world I am barely four days old--



looking back on my own time, that it was a queer,

barbaric time--the mere beginning of this new order.



The mere beginning of this new order. You will find

it hard to understand how little I know."



" You may ask me what you like," she said, smiling

at him.



"Then tell me who these people are. I'm still very

much in the dark about them. It's puzzling. Are



there any Generals? "

"Men in hats and feathers?"



"Of course not. No. I suppose they are the men

who control the great public businesses. Who is that



distinguished looking man?"

"That? He's a most important officer. That is



Morden. He is managing director of the Antibilious

Pill Company. I have heard that his workers sometimes



turn out a myriadmyriad pills a day in the

twenty-four hours. Fancy a myriadmyriad!"



"A myriadmyriad. No wonder he looks proud,"

said Graham. "Pills! What a wonderful time it is!



That man in purple?"

"He is not quite one of the inner circle, you know.



But we like him. He is really clever and very amusing.

He is one of the heads of the Medical Faculty of



our London University. All medical men, you know,

are shareholders in the Medical Faculty Company,



and wear that purple. You have to be--to be qualified.

But of course, people who are paid' by fees for



doing something--" She smiled away the social

pretensions of all such people.



"Are any of your great artists or authors here?"

"No authors. They are mostly such queer people--



and so preoccupied about themselves. And they

quarrel so dreadfully! They will fight, some of them, for



precedence on staircases! Dreadful isn't it? But I

think Wraysbury, the fashionable capillotomist, is



here. From Capri."

"Capillotomist," said Graham. "Ah! I remember.



An artist! Why not?"

"We have to cultivate him," she said apologetically.



"Our heads are in his hands." She smiled.

Graham hesitated at the invited compliment, but his



glance was expressive. "Have the arts grown with

the rest of civilised things?" he said. "Who are your



great painters?"

She looked at him doubtfully. Then laughed.



"For a moment," she said, "I thought you meant--"

She laughed again. "You mean, of course, those



good men you used to think so much of because they

could cover great spaces of canvas with oil-colours?



Great oblongs. And people used to put the things in




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