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The Door in the Wall And Other Stories | H. G. [Herbert George] Wells | |
A Dream of Armageddon |
Page 13 of 20 |
The man with the white face paused. I glanced at him, and his face was intent on the floor of the carriage. A little railway station, a string of loaded trucks, a signal-box, and the back of a cottage, shot by the carriage window, and a bridge passed with a clap of noise, echoing the tumult of the train. "After that," he said, "I dreamt often. For three weeks of nights that dream was my life. And the worst of it was there were nights when I could not dream, when I lay tossing on a bed in this accursed life; and there--somewhere lost to me--things were happening--momentous, terrible things . . . I lived at nights--my days, my waking days, this life I am living now, became a faded, far-away dream, a drab setting, the cover of the book." He thought. "I could tell you all, tell you every little thing in the dream, but as to what I did in the daytime--no. I could not tell--I do not remember. My memory--my memory has gone. The business of life slips from me--" He leant forward, and pressed his hands upon his eyes. For a long time he said nothing. "And then?" said I. "The war burst like a hurricane." He stared before him at unspeakable things. "And then?" I urged again. "One touch of unreality," he said, in the low tone of a man who speaks to himself," and they would have been nightmares. But they were not nightmares--they were not nightmares. No!" |
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The Door in the Wall And Other Stories H. G. [Herbert George] Wells |
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