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When the Sleeper Wakes-Part46_H. G. WELLS (1866-1946)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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was happening there? Even the busy ward leaders did



not know. In spite of the opening and closing of

doors, the hasty messengers, the ringing of bells and



the perpetual clitter-clack of recording implements,

Graham felt isolated, strangelyinactive, inoperative.



Their isolation seemed at times the strangest, the

most unexpected of all the things that had happened



since his awakening. It had something of the quality

of that inactivity that comes in dreams. A tumult, the



stupendous realisation of a world struggle between

Ostrog and himself, and then this confined quiet little



room with its mouthpieces and bells and broken

mirror!



Now the door would be closed and they were alone

together; they seemed sharply marked off then from all



the unprecedented world storm that rushed together

without, vividly aware of one another, only concerned



with one another. Then the door would open again,

messengers would enter, or a sharp bell would stab



their quiet privacy, and it was like a window in a well

built brightly lit house flung open suddenly to a hurricane.



The dark hurry and tumult, the stress and

vehemence of the battle rushed in and overwhelmed



them. They were no longer persons but mere spectators,

mere impressions of a tremendous convulsion.



They became unreal even to themselves, miniatures of

personality, indescribably small, and the two antagonistic



realities, the only realities in being were first the

city, that throbbed and roared yonder in a belated



frenzy of defence and secondly the aeroplanes hurling

inexorably towards them over the round shoulder of



the world.

At first their mood had been one of exalted confidence,



a great pride had possessed them, a pride in

one another for the greatness of the issues they had



challenged. At first he had walked the room eloquent

with a transitory persuasion of his tremendousdestiny.



But slowly uneasy intimations of their coming

defeat touched his spirit. There came a long period in



which they were alone. He changed his theme,

became egotistical, spoke of the wonder of his sleep, of



the little life of his memories, remote yet minute and

clear, like something seen through an inverted opera-



glass, and all the brief play of desires and errors that

had made his former life. She said little, but the emotion



in her face followed the tones in his voice, and it

seemed to him he had at last a perfect understanding.



He reverted from pure reminiscence to that sense of

greatness she imposed upon him. "And through it



all, this destiny was before me," he said; "this vast

inheritance of which I did not dream."



Insensibly their heroic preoccupation with the

revlutionary struggle passed to the question of their



relationship. He began to question her. She told him of

the days before his awakening, spoke with a brief



vividness of the girlish dreams that had given a bias

to her life, of the incredulous emotions his awakening



had aroused. She told him too of a tragic circumstance

of her girlhood that had darkened her life,



quickened her sense of injustice and opened her heart

prematurely to the wider sorrows of the world. For a



little time, so far as he was concerned, the great war

about them was but the vast ennobling background



to these personal things.

In an instant these personal relations were submerged.



There came messengers to tell that a great

fleet of aeroplanes was rushing between the sky and



Avignon. He went to the crystal dial in the corner

and assured himself that the thing was so. He went



to the chart room and consulted a map to measure the

distances of Avignon, New Arawan, and London. He



made swift calculations. He went to the room of the

Ward Leaders to ask for news of the fight for the



stages--and there was no one there. After a time he




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