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Produced by John Bean





WHEN THE SLEEPER WAKES

By Herbert George Wells




CHAPTER I. INSOMNIA

One afternoon, at low water, Mr. Isbister, a young artist lodging at
Boscastle, walked from that place to the picturesque cove of Pentargen,
desiring to examine the caves there. Halfway down the precipitous
path to the Pentargen beach he came suddenly upon a man sitting in an
attitude of profound distress beneath a projecting mass of rock. The
hands of this man hung limply over his knees, his eyes were red and
staring before him, and his face was wet with tears.

He glanced round at Isbister's footfall. Both men were disconcerted,
Isbister the more so, and, to override the awkwardness of his
involuntary pause, he remarked, with an air of mature conviction, that
the weather was hot for the time of year.

"Very," answered the stranger shortly, hesitated a second, and added in
a colourless tone, "I can't sleep."

Isbister stopped abruptly. "No?" was all he said, but his bearing
conveyed his helpful impulse.

"It may sound incredible," said the stranger, turning weary eyes to
Isbister's face and emphasizing his words with a languid hand, "but I
have had no sleep - no sleep at all for six nights."

"Had advice?"

"Yes. Bad advice for the most part. Drugs. My nervous system.... They
are all very well for the run of people. It's hard to explain. I dare
not take... sufficiently powerful drugs."

"That makes it difficult," said Isbister.

He stood helplessly in the narrow path, perplexed what to do. Clearly
the man wanted to talk. An idea natural enough under the circumstances,
prompted him to keep the conversation going. "I've never suffered from
sleeplessness myself," he said in a tone of commonplace gossip, "but in
those cases I have known, people have usually found something - "

"I dare make no experiments."

He spoke wearily. He gave a gesture of rejection, and for a space both
men were silent.

"Exercise?" suggested Isbister diffidently, with a glance from his
interlocutor's face of wretchedness to the touring costume he wore.

"That is what I have tried. Unwisely perhaps. I have followed the coast,
day after day - from New Quay. It has only added muscular fatigue to
the mental. The cause of this unrest was overwork - trouble. There was
something - "

He stopped as if from sheer fatigue. He rubbed his forehead with a lean
hand. He resumed speech like one who talks to himself.

"I am a lone wolf, a solitary man, wandering through a world in which
I have no part. I am wifeless - childless - who is it speaks of the
childless as the dead twigs on the tree of life? I am wifeless, I
childless - I could find no duty to do. No desire even in my heart. One
thing at last I set myself to do.

"I said, I will do this, and to do it, to overcome the inertia of this
dull body, I resorted to drugs. Great God, I've had enough of drugs!
I don't know if _you_ feel the heavy inconvenience of the body, its
exasperating demand of time from the mind - time - life! Live! We only
live in patches. We have to eat, and then comes the dull digestive
complacencies - or irritations. We have to take the air or else our
thoughts grow sluggish, stupid, run into gulfs and blind alleys. A
thousand distractions arise from within and without, and then comes
drowsiness and sleep. Men seem to live for sleep. How little of a man's
day is his own - even at the best! And then come those false friends,
those Thug helpers, the alkaloids that stifle natural fatigue and kill
rest - black coffee, cocaine - "

"I see," said Isbister.

"I did my work," said the sleepless man with a querulous intonation.

"And this is the price?"

"Yes."

For a little while the two remained without speaking.

"You cannot imagine the craving for rest that I feel - a hunger and
thirst. For six long days, since my work was done, my mind has been a
whirlpool, swift, unprogressive and incessant, a torrent of thoughts
leading nowhere, spinning round swift and steady - "

He paused. "Towards the gulf."

"You must sleep," said Isbister decisively, and with an air of a remedy
discovered. "Certainly you must sleep."

"My mind is perfectly lucid. It was never clearer. But I know I am
drawing towards the vortex. Presently - "

"Yes?"

"You have seen things go down an eddy? Out of the light of the day, out
of this sweet world of sanity - down - "

"But," expostulated Isbister.

The man threw out a hand towards him, and his eyes were wild, and his
voice suddenly high. "I shall kill myself. If in no other way - at the
foot of yonder dark precipice there, where the waves are green, and the
white surge lifts and falls, and that little thread of water trembles
down. There at any rate is ... sleep."

"That's unreasonable," said Isbister, startled at the man's hysterical
gust of emotion. "Drugs are better than that."

"There at any rate is sleep," repeated the stranger, not heeding him.

Isbister looked at him and wondered transitorily if some complex
Providence had indeed brought them together that afternoon. "It's not
a cert, you know," he remarked. "There's a cliff like that at Lulworth
Cove - as high, anyhow - and a little girl fell from top to bottom. And
lives to-day - sound and well."

"But those rocks there?"

"One might lie on them rather dismally through a cold night, broken
bones grating as one shivered, chill water splashing over you. Eh?"

Their eyes met. "Sorry to upset your ideals," said Isbister with a sense
of devil-may-careish brilliance.

"But a suicide over that cliff (or any cliff for the matter of that),
really, as an artist - " He laughed. "It's so damned amateurish."

"But the other thing," said the sleepless man irritably, "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 what it was. There is a sort of
oppression, a weight. No - not drowsiness, would God it were! It is like
a shadow, a deep shadow falling suddenly and swiftly across something
busy. Spin, spin into the darkness The tumult of thought, the confusion,
the eddy and eddy. I can't express it. I can hardly keep my mind on
it - steadily enough to tell you."

He stopped feebly.

"Don't trouble, old chap," said Isbister. "I think I can understand. At
any rate, it don't matter very much just at present about telling me,
you know."

The sleepless man thrust his knuckles into his eyes and rubbed them.
Isbister talked for awhile while this rubbing continued, and then he had
a fresh idea. "Come down to my room," he said, "and try a pipe. I can
show you some sketches of this Blackapit. If you'd care?"

The other rose obediently and followed him down the steep.

Several times Isbister heard him stumble as they came down, and his
movements were slow and hesitating. "Come in with me," said Isbister,
"and try some cigarettes and the blessed gift of alcohol. If you take
alcohol?"

The stranger hesitated at the garden gate. He seemed no longer clearly
aware of his actions. "I don't drink," he said slowly, coming up the
garden path, and after a moment's interval repeated absently, "No - I
don't drink. It goes round. Spin, it goes - spin - "

He stumbled at the doorstep and entered the room with the bearing of one
who sees nothing.

Then he sat down abruptly and heavily in the easy chair, seemed almost
to fall into it. He leant forward with his brows on his hands and became
motionless.

Presently he made a faint sound in his throat. Isbister moved about
the room with the nervousness of an inexperienced host, making little
remarks that scarcely required answering. He crossed the room to his
portfolio, placed it on the table and noticed the mantel clock.

"I don't know if you'd care to have supper with me," he said with an
unlighted cigarette in his hand - his mind troubled with a design of
the furtive administration of chloral. "Only cold mutton, you know, but
passing sweet. Welsh. And a tart, I believe." He repeated this after
momentary silence.

The seated man made no answer. Isbister stopped, match in hand,
regarding him.

The stillness lengthened. The match went out, the cigarette was put down
unlit. The man was certainly very still. Isbister took up the portfolio,
opened it, put it down, hesitated, seemed about to speak. "Perhaps," he
whispered doubtfully. Presently he glanced at the door and back to
the figure. Then he stole on tiptoe out of the room, glancing at his
companion after each elaborate pace.

He closed the door noiselessly. The house door was standing open, and
he went out beyond the porch, and stood where the monkshood rose at
the corner of the garden bed. From this point he could see the stranger
through the open window, still and dim, sitting head on hand. He had not
moved.

A number of children going along the road stopped and regarded the
artist curiously. A boatman exchanged civilities with him. He felt
that possibly his circumspect attitude and position seemed peculiar and
unaccountable. Smoking, perhaps, might seem more natural. He drew pipe
and pouch from his pocket, filled the pipe slowly.

"I wonder,"... he said, with a scarcely perceptible loss of complacency.
"At any rate we must give him a chance." He struck a match in the virile
way, and proceeded to light his pipe.

Presently he heard his landlady behind him, coming with his lamp lit
from the kitchen. He turned, gesticulating with his pipe, and stopped
her at the door of his sitting-room. He had some difficulty in
explaining the situation in whispers, for she did not know he had a
visitor. She retreated again with the lamp, still a little mystified to
judge from her manner, and he resumed his hovering at the corner of the
porch, flushed and less at his ease.

Long after he had smoked out his pipe, and when the bats were abroad,
his curiosity dominated his complex hesitations, and he stole back into
his darkling sitting-room. He paused in the doorway. The stranger
was still in the same attitude, dark against the window. Save for the
singing of some sailors aboard one of the little slate-carrying ships
in the harbour, the evening was very still. Outside, the spikes of
monkshood and delphinium stood erect and motionless against the shadow
of the hillside. Something flashed into Isbister's mind; he started, and
leaning over the table, listened. An unpleasant suspicion grew stronger;
became conviction. Astonishment seized him and became - dread!

No sound of breathing came from the seated figure!

He crept slowly and noiselessly round the table, pausing twice to
listen. At last he could lay his hand on the back of the armchair. He
bent down until the two heads were ear to ear.

Then he bent still lower to look up at his visitor's face. He started
violently and uttered an exclamation. The eyes were void spaces of
white.

He looked again and saw that they were open and with the pupils rolled
under the lids. He was suddenly afraid. Overcome by the strangeness of
the man's condition, he took him by the shoulder and shook him. "Are you
asleep?" he said, with his voice jumping into alto, and again, "Are you
asleep?"

A conviction took possession of his mind that this man was dead. He
suddenly became active and noisy, strode across the room, blundering
against the table as he did so, and rang the bell.

"Please bring a light at once," he said in the passage. "There is
something wrong with my friend."

Then he returned to the motionless seated figure, grasped the shoulder,
shook it, and shouted. The room was flooded with yellow glare as his
astonished landlady entered with the light. His face was white as he
turned blinking towards her. "I must fetch a doctor at once," he said.
"It is either death or a fit. Is there a doctor in the village? Where is
a doctor to be found?"




CHAPTER II. THE TRANCE

The state of cataleptic rigour into which this man had fallen, lasted
for an unprecedented length of time, and then he passed slowly to the
flaccid state, to a lax attitude suggestive of profound repose. Then it
was his eyes could be closed.

He was removed from the hotel to the Boscastle surgery, and from the
surgery, after some weeks, to London. But he still resisted every
attempt at reanimation. After a time, for reasons that will appear
later, these attempts were discontinued. For a great space he lay in
that strange condition, inert and still neither dead nor living but, as
it were, suspended, hanging midway between nothingness and existence.
His was a darkness unbroken by a ray of thought or sensation, a
dreamless inanition, a vast space of peace. The tumult of his mind had
swelled and risen to an abrupt climax of silence. Where was the man?
Where is any man when insensibility takes hold of him?

"It seems only yesterday," said Isbister. "I remember it all as
though it happened yesterday - clearer perhaps, than if it had happened
yesterday."

It was the Isbister of the last chapter, but he was no longer a
young man. The hair that had been brown and a trifle in excess of the
fashionable length, was iron grey and clipped close, and the face that
had been pink and white was buff and ruddy. He had a pointed beard shot
with grey. He talked to an elderly man who wore a summer suit of drill
(the summer of that year was unusually hot). This was Warming, a London
solicitor and next of kin to Graham, the man who had fallen into the
trance. And the two men stood side by side in a room in a house in
London regarding his recumbent figure.

It was a yellow figure lying lax upon a water-bed and clad in a flowing
shirt, a figure with a shrunken face and a stubby beard, lean limbs and
lank nails, and about it was a case of thin glass. This glass seemed
to mark off the sleeper from the reality of life about him, he was a
thing apart, a strange, isolated abnormality. The two men stood close to
the glass, peering in.

"The thing gave me a shock," said Isbister "I feel a queer sort of
surprise even now when I think of his white eyes. They were white, you
know, rolled up. Coming here again brings it all back to me.

"Have you never seen him since that time?" asked Warming.

"Often wanted to come," said Isbister; "but business nowadays is too
serious a thing for much holiday keeping. I've been in America most of
the time."

"If I remember rightly," said Warming, "you were an artist?"

"Was. And then I became a married man. I saw it was all up with black
and white, very soon - at least for a mediocre man, and I jumped on to
process. Those posters on the Cliffs at Dover are by my people."

"Good posters," admitted the solicitor, "though I was sorry to see them
there."

"Last as long as the cliffs, if necessary," exclaimed Isbister with
satisfaction. "The world changes. When he fell asleep, twenty years
ago, I was down at Boscastle with a box of water-colours and a noble,
old-fashioned ambition. I didn't expect that some day my pigments would
glorify the whole blessed coast of England, from Land's End round again
to the Lizard. Luck comes to a man very often when he's not looking."

Warming seemed to doubt the quality of the luck. "I just missed seeing
you, if I recollect aright."

"You came back by the trap that took me to Camelford railway station.
It was close on the Jubilee, Victoria's Jubilee, because I remember the
seats and flags in Westminster, and the row with the cabman at Chelsea."

"The Diamond Jubilee, it was," said Warming; "the second one."

"Ah, yes! At the proper Jubilee - the Fifty Year affair - I was down at
Wookey - a boy. I missed all that.... What a fuss we had with him! My
landlady wouldn't take him in, wouldn't let him stay - he looked so queer
when he was rigid. We had to carry him in a chair up to the hotel. And
the Boscastle doctor - it wasn't the present chap, but the G.P. before
him - was at him until nearly two, with, me and the landlord holding
lights and so forth."

"It was a cataleptic rigour at first, wasn't it?"

"Stiff! - wherever you bent him he stuck. You might have stood him on
his head and he'd have stopped. I never saw such stiffness. Of course
this" - he indicated the prostrate figure by a movement of his head - "is
quite different. And, of course, the little doctor - what was his name?"

"Smithers?"

"Smithers it was - was quite wrong in trying to fetch him round too soon,
according to all accounts. The things he did. Even now it makes me feel
all - ugh! Mustard, snuff, pricking. And one of those beastly little
things, not dynamos - "

"Induction coils."

"Yes. You could see his muscles throb and jump, and he twisted about.
There was just two flaring yellow candles, and all the shadows were
shivering, and the little doctor nervous and putting on side, and
him - stark and squirming in the most unnatural ways. Well, it made me
dream."

Pause.

"It's a strange state," said Warming.

"It's a sort of complete absence," said Isbister.

"Here's the body, empty. Not dead a bit, and yet not alive. It's like a
seat vacant and marked 'engaged.' No feeling, no digestion, no beating
of the heart - not a flutter. _That_ doesn't make me feel as if there was
a man present. In a sense it's more dead than death, for these doctors
tell me that even the hair has stopped growing. Now with the proper
dead, the hair will go on growing - "

"I know," said Warming, with a flash of pain in his expression.

They peered through the glass again. Graham was indeed in a strange
state, in the flaccid phase of a trance, but a trance unprecedented in
medical history. Trances had lasted for as much as a year before - but at
the end of that time it had ever been waking or a death; sometimes first
one and then the other. Isbister noted the marks the physicians had
made in injecting nourishment, for that device had been resorted to to
postpone collapse; he pointed them out to Warming, who had been trying
not to see them.

"And while he has been lying here," said Isbister, with the zest of a
life freely spent, "I have changed my plans in life; married, raised
a family, my eldest lad - I hadn't begun to think of sons then - is an
American citizen, and looking forward to leaving Harvard. There's
a touch of grey in my hair. And this man, not a day older nor wiser
(practically) than I was in my downy days. It's curious to think of."

Warming turned. "And I have grown old too. I played cricket with him
when I was still only a lad. And he looks a young man still. Yellow
perhaps. But that is a young man nevertheless."

"And there's been the War," said Isbister.

"From beginning to end."

"And these Martians."

"I've understood," said Isbister after a pause, "that he had some
moderate property of his own?"

"That is so," said Warming. He coughed primly. "As it happens - have
charge of it."

"Ah!" Isbister thought, hesitated and spoke: "No doubt - his keep here is
not expensive - no doubt it will have improved - accumulated?"

"It has. He will wake up very much better off - if he wakes - than when he
slept."

"As a business man," said Isbister, "that thought has naturally been in
my mind. I have, indeed, sometimes thought that, speaking commercially,
of course, this sleep may be a very good thing for him. That he knows
what he is about, so to speak, in being insensible so long. If he had
lived straight on - "

"I doubt if he would have premeditated as much," said Warming. "He was
not a far-sighted man. In fact - "

"Yes?"

"We differed on that point. I stood to him somewhat in the relation of
a guardian. You have probably seen enough of affairs to recognise that
occasionally a certain friction - . But even if that was the case, there
is a doubt whether he will ever wake. This sleep exhausts slowly, but
it exhausts. Apparently he is sliding slowly, very slowly and tediously,
down a long slope, if you can understand me?"

"It will be a pity to lose his surprise. There's been a lot of change
these twenty years. It's Rip Van Winkle come real."

"It's Bellamy," said Warming. "There has been a lot of change certainly.
And, among other changes, I have changed. I am an old man."

Isbister hesitated, and then feigned a belated surprise. "I shouldn't
have thought it."

"I was forty-three when his bankers - you remember you wired to his
bankers - sent on to me."

"I got their address from the cheque book in his pocket," said Isbister.

"Well, the addition is not difficult," said Warming.

There was another pause, and then Isbister gave way to an unavoidable
curiosity. "He may go on for years yet," he said, and had a moment of
hesitation. "We have to consider that. His affairs, you know, may fall
some day into the hands of - someone else, you know."

"That, if you will believe me, Mr. Isbister, is one of the problems most
constantly before my mind. We happen to be - as a matter of fact, there
are no very trustworthy connections of ours. It is a grotesque and
unprecedented position."

"It is," said Isbister. "As a matter of fact, it's a case for a public
trustee, if only we had such a functionary."

"It seems to me it's a case for some public body, some practically
undying guardian. If he really is going on living - as the doctors, some
of them, think. As a matter of fact, I have gone to one or two public
men about it. But, so far, nothing has been done."

"It wouldn't be a bad idea to hand him over to some public body - the
British Museum Trustees, or the Royal College of Physicians. Sounds a


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