when the sleeper wakes-第10部分

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And　another　thing　dawned　upon　him。　There　was

no　fireplace　in　either　room。　Was　the　season　summer；

and　were　these　merely　summer　apartments；　or　was

the　whole　City　uniformly　heated　or　cooled？　He　became　

interested　in　these　questions；　began　examining

the　smooth　texture　of　the　walls；　the　simply　constructed

bed；　the　ingenious　arrangements　by　which　the　labour

of　bedroom　service　was　practically　abolished。　And

over　everything　was　a　curious　absence　of　deliberate

ornament；　a　bare　grace　of　form　and　colour；　that　he

found　very　pleasing　to　the　eye。　There　were　several

very　comfortable　chairs；　a　light　table　on　silent　runners

carrying　several　bottles　of　fluids　and　glasses；　and　two

plates　bearing　a　clear　substance　like　jelly。　Then　he

noticed　there　were　no　books；　no　newspapers；　no　

writing　materials。　〃The　world　has　changed　indeed；〃　he

said。



He　observed　one　entire　side　of　the　outer　room　was

set　with　rows　of　peculiar　double　cylinders　inscribed

with　green　lettering　on　white　that　harmonized　With


the　decorative　scheme　of　the　room；　and　in　the　centre

of　this　side　projected　a　little　apparatus　about　a　yard

square　and　having　a　white　smooth　face　to　the　room。　A

chair　faced　this。　He　had　a　transitory　idea　that　these

cylinders　might　be　books；　or　a　modern　substitute　for

books；　but　at　first　it　did　not　seem　so。



The　lettering　on　the　cylinders　puzzled　him。　At　first

sight　it　seemed　like　Russian。　Then　he　noticed　a　

suggestion　of　mutilated　English　about　certain　of　the

words。

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　〃oi　Man　huwdbi　Kin〃



forced　itself　on　him　as　〃The　Man　who　would　be

King。〃　〃Phonetic　spelling；〃　he　said。　He　remembered　

reading　a　story　with　that　title；　then　he　recalled

the　story　vividly；　one　of　the　best　stories　in　the　world。

But　this　thing　before　him　was　not　a　book　as　he

understood　it。　He　puzzled　out　the　titles　of　two　adjacent　

cylinders。　'The　Heart　of　Darkness；'　he　had

never　heard　of　before　nor　'The　Madonna　of　the

Future'no　doubt　if　they　were　indeed　stories；　they

were　by　post　Victorian　authors。



He　puzzled　over　this　peculiar　cylinder　for　some　time

and　replaced　it。　Then　he　turned　to　the　square　apparatus　

and　examined　that。　He　opened　a　sort　of　lid

and　found　one　of　the　double　cylinders　within；　and

on　the　upper　edge　a　little　stud　like　the　stud　of　an

electric　bell。　He　pressed　this　and　a　rapid　clicking

began　and　ceased。　He　became　aware　of　voices　and

music；　and　noticed　a　play　of　colour　on　the　smooth

front　face。　He　suddenly　realised　what　this　might　be；

and　stepped　back　to　regard　it。



On　the　flat　surface　was　now　a　little　picture；　very

vividly　coloured；　and　in　this　picture　were　figures　that

moved。　Not　only　did　they　move；　but　they　were　conversing　

in　clear　small　voices。　It　was　exactly　like

reality　viewed　through　an　inverted　opera　glass　and

heard　through　a　long　tube。　His　interest　was　seized

at　once　by　the　situation；　which　presented　a　man　pacing

up　and　down　and　vociferating　angry　things　to　a　pretty

but　petulant　woman。　Both　were　in　the　picturesque

costume　that　seemed　so　strange　to　Graham。　〃I　have

worked；〃　said　the　man；　〃but　what　have　you　been

doing？〃



〃Ah！〃　said　Graham。　He　forgot　everything　else；

and　sat　down　in　the　chair。　Within　five　minutes　he

heard　himself　named；　heard　〃when　the　Sleeper　wakes；〃

used　jestingly　as　a　proverb　for　remote　postponement；

and　passed　himself　by；　a　thing　remote　and　incredible。

But　in　a　little　while　he　knew　those　two　people　like　l　。

intimate　friends。



At　last　the　miniature　drama　came　to　an　end；　and

the　square　face　of　the　apparatus　was　blank　again。



It　was　a　strange　world　into　which　he　had　been　permitted　

to　see；　unscrupulous；　pleasure　seeking；　energetic；　

subtle；　a　world　too　of　dire　economic　struggle；

there　were　allusions　he　did　not　understand；　incidents

that　conveyed　strange　suggestions　of　altered　moral

ideals；　flashes　of　dubious　enlightenment。　The　blue

canvas　that　bulked　so　largely　in　his　first　impression

of　the　city　ways　appeared　again　and　again　as　the　

costume　of　the　common　people。　He　had　no　doubt　the

story　was　contemporary；　and　its　intense　realism　was

undeniable。　And　the　end　had　been　a　tragedy　that

oppressed　him。　He　sat　staring　at　the　blankness。



He　started　and　rubbed　his　eyes。　He　had　been　so

absorbed　in　the　latter…day　substitute　for　a　novel；　that

he　awoke　to　the　little　green　and　white　room　with　more

than　a　touch　of　the　surprise　of　his　first　awakening。



He　stood　up；　and　abruptly　he　was　back　in　his　own

wonderland。　The　clearness　of　the　kinetoscope　drama

passed；　and　the　struggle　in　the　vast　place　of　streets；

the　ambiguous　Council；　the　swift　phases　of　his　waking

hour；　came　back。　These　people　had　spoken　of　the

Council　with　suggestions　of　a　vague　universality　of

power。　And　they　had　spoken　of　the　Sleeper；　it　had

not　really　struck　him　vividly　at　the　time　that　he　was

the　Sleeper。　He　had　to　recall　precisely　what　they　had

said。



He　walked　into　the　bedroom　and　peered　up　through

the　quick　intervals　of　the　revolving　fan。　As　the　fan

swept　round；　a　dim　turmoil　like　the　noise　of　machinery

came　in　rhythmic　eddies。　All　else　was　silence。

Though　the　perpetual　day　still　irradiated　his　apartments；　

he　perceived　the　little　intermittent　strip　of　sky

was　now　deep　blueblack　almost；　with　a　dust　of

little　stars。



He　resumed　his　examination　of　the　rooms。　He

could　find　no　way　of　opening　the　padded　door；　no　bell

nor　other　means　of　calling　for　attendance。　His　feeling　

of　wonder　was　in　abeyance；　but　he　was　curious；

anxious　for　information。　He　wanted　to　know　exactly

how　he　stood　to　these　new　things。　He　tried　to　compose　

himself　to　wait　until　someone　came　to　him。

Presently　he　became　restless　and　eager　for　information；　

for　distraction；　for　fresh　sensations。



He　went　back　to　the　apparatus　in　the　other　room；

and　had　soon　puzzled　out　the　method　of　replacing　the

cylinders　by　others。　As　he　did　so；　it　came　into　his

mind　that　it　must　be　these　little　appliances　had　fixed

the　language　so　that　it　was　still　clear　and　understand…

able　after　two　hundred　years。　The　haphazard　cylinders　

he　substituted　displayed　a　musical　fantasia。　At

first　it　was　beautiful；　and　then　it　was　sensuous。　He

presently　recognized　what　appeared　to　him　to　be　an

altered　version　of　the　story　of　Tannhauser。　The　music

was　unfamiliar。　But　the　rendering　was　realistic；　and

with　a　contemporary　unfamiliarity。　Tannhauser　did

not　go　to　a　Venusberg；　but　to　a　Pleasure　City。　What

was　a　Pleasure　City？　A　dream；　surely；　the　fancy　of

a　fantastic；　voluptuous　writer。



He　became　interested；　curious。　The　story　developed　

with　a　flavour　of　strangely　twisted　sentimentality。

Suddenly　he　did　not　like　it。　He　liked　it　less　as　it

proceeded。



He　had　a　revulsion　of　feeling。　These　were　no　pictures；　

no　idealisations；　but　photographed　realities。　He

wanted　no　more　of　the　twenty…second　century　Venusberg。　

He　forgot　the　part　played　by　the　model　in

nineteenth　century　art；　and　gave　way　to　an　archaic

indignation。　He　rose；　angry　and　half　ashamed　at　himself　

for　witnessing　this　thing　even　in　solitude。　He

pulled　forward　the　apparatus；　and　with　some　violence

sought　for　a　means　of　stopping　its　action。　Something

snapped。　A　violet　spark　stung　and　convulsed　his

arm　and　the　thing　was　still。　When　he　attempted　next

day　to　replace　these　Tannhauser　cylinders　by　another

pair；　he　found　the　apparatus　broken。。。。



He　struck　out　a　path　oblique　to　the　room　and　paced

to　and　fro；　struggling　with　intolerable　vast　impressions。　

The　things　he　had　derived　from　the　cylinders

and　the　things　he　had　seen；　conflicted；　confused　him。

It　seemed　to　him　the　most　amazing　thing　of　all　that

in　his　thirty　years　of　life　he　had　never　tried　to　shape

a　picture　of　these　coming　times。　〃We　were　making

the　future；〃　he　said；　〃and　hardly　any　of　us　troubled

to　think　what　future　we　were　making。　And　here　it　is！〃



〃What　have　they　got　to；　what　has　been　done？　How

do　I　come　into　the　midst　of　it　all？〃　The　vastness　of

street　and　house　he　was　prepared　for；　the　multitudes　of

people。　But　conflicts　in　the　city　ways！　And　the　systematised　

sensuality　of　a　class　of　rich　men！



He　thought　of　Bellamy；　the　hero　of　whose　Socialistic　

Utopia　had　so　oddly　anticipated　this　actual　experience。　

But　here　was　no　Utopia；　no　Socialistic　state。

He　had　already　seen　enough　to　realise　that　the　ancient

antithesis　of　luxury；　waste　and　sensuality　on　the　one

hand　and　abject　poverty　on　the　other；　still　prevailed。

He　knew　enough　of　the　essential　factors　of　life　to

understand　that　correlation。　And　not　only　were　the

buildings　of　the　city　gigantic　and　the　crowds　in　the

street　gigantic；　but　the　voices　he　had　heard　in　the

ways；　the　uneasiness　of　Howard；　the　very　atmosphere

spoke　of　gigantic　discontent。　What　country　was　he

in？　Still　England　it　seemed；　and　yet　strangely

〃un…English。〃　His　mind　glanced　at　the　rest　of　the

world；　and　saw　only　an　enigmatical　veil。



He　prowled　about　his　apartment；　examining　everything　

as　a　caged　animal　might　do。　He　felt　very　tired；

felt　that　feverish　exhaustion　that　does　not　admit　of　rest。

He　listened　for　long　spaces　under　the　ventilator　to

catch　some　distant　echo　of　the　tumults　he　felt　must　be

proceeding　in　the　city。



He　began　to　talk　to　himself。　〃Two　hundred　and

three　years！　〃　he　said　to　himself　over　and　over　again；

laughing　stupidly。　〃Then　I　am　two　hundred　and

thirty…three　years　old！　The　oldest　inhabitant。　Surely

they　haven't　reversed　the　tendency　of　our　time　and

gone　back　to　the　rule　of　the　oldest。　My　claims　are

indisputable。　Mumble；　mumble。　I　remember　the　Bulgarian　

atrocities　as　though　it　was　yesterday。　'Tis　a

great　age！　Ha　ha！〃　He　was　surprised　at　first　to

hear　himself　laughing；　and　then　laughed　again　deliberately　

and　louder。　Then　he　realised　that　he　was

behaving　foolishly。　〃Steady；〃　he　said。　〃Steady！〃



His　pacing　became　more　regular。　〃This　new

world；〃　he　said。　〃I　don't　understand　it。　__Why？__　。　。　。

But