And now comes the strangest thing in my story. Yet, perhaps, it is not altogether strange. I remember, clearly and coldly and vividly1, all that I did that day until the time that I stood weeping and praising God upon the summit of Primrose2 Hill. And then I forget.
Of the next three days I know nothing. I have learned since that, so far from my being the first discoverer of the Martian overthrow3, several such wanderers as myself had already discovered this on the previous night. One man-the first--had gone to St. Martin's-le-Grand, and, while I sheltered in the cabmen's hut, had contrived4 to telegraph to Paris. Thence the joyful5 news had flashed all over the world; a thousand cities, chilled by ghastly apprehensions6, suddenly flashed into frantic7 illuminations; they knew of it in Dublin, Edinburgh, Manchester, Birmingham, at the time when I stood upon the verge8 of the pit. Already men, weeping with joy, as I have heard, shouting and staying their work to shake hands and shout, were making up trains, even as near as Crewe, to descend9 upon London. The church bells that had ceased a fortnight since suddenly caught the news, until all England was bell-ringing. Men on cycles, lean-faced, unkempt, scorched10 along every country lane shouting of unhoped deliverance, shouting to gaunt, staring figures of despair. And for the food! Across the Channel, across the Irish Sea, across the Atlantic, corn, bread, and meat were tearing to our relief. All the shipping11 in the world seemed going Londonward in those days. But of all this I have no memory. I drifted--a demented man. I found myself in a house of kindly12 people, who had found me on the third day wandering, weeping, and raving13 through the streets of St. John's Wood. They have told me since that I was singing some insane doggerel14 about "The Last Man Left Alive! Hurrah15! The Last Man Left Alive!" Troubled as they were with their own affairs, these people, whose name, much as I would like to express my gratitude16 to them, I may not even give here, nevertheless cumbered themselves with me, sheltered me, and protected me from myself. Apparently17 they had learned something of my story from me during the days of my lapse18.
Very gently, when my mind was assured again, did they break to me what they had learned of the fate of Leatherhead. Two days after I was imprisoned19 it had been destroyed, with every soul in it, by a Martian. He had swept it out of existence, as it seemed, without any provocation20, as a boy might crush an ant hill, in the mere21 wantonness of power.
I was a lonely man, and they were very kind to me. I was a lonely man and a sad one, and they bore with me. I remained with them four days after my recovery. All that time I felt a vague, a growing craving22 to look once more on whatever remained of the little life that seemed so happy and bright in my past. It was a mere hopeless desire to feast upon my misery23. They dissuaded24 me. They did all they could to divert me from this morbidity25. But at last I could resist the impulse no longer, and, promising26 faithfully to return to them, and parting, as I will confess, from these four-day friends with tears, I went out again into the streets that had lately been so dark and strange and empty.
Already they were busy with returning people; in places even there were shops open, and I saw a drinking fountain running water.
I remember how mockingly bright the day seemed as I went back on my melancholy27 pilgrimage to the little house at Woking, how busy the streets and vivid the moving life about me. So many people were abroad everywhere, busied in a thousand activities, that it seemed incredible that any great proportion of the population could have been slain28. But then I noticed how yellow were the skins of the people I met, how shaggy the hair of the men, how large and bright their eyes, and that every other man still wore his dirty rags. Their faces seemed all with one of two expressions--a leaping exultation29 and energy or a grim resolution. Save for the expression of the faces, London seemed a city of tramps. The vestries were indiscriminately distributing bread sent us by the French government. The ribs30 of the few horses showed dismally31. Haggard special constables32 with white badges stood at the corners of every street. I saw little of the mischief33 wrought34 by the Martians until I reached Wellington Street, and there I saw the red weed clambering over the buttresses35 of Waterloo Bridge.
At the corner of the bridge, too, I saw one of the common contrasts of that grotesque36 time--a sheet of paper flaunting37 against a thicket38 of the red weed, transfixed by a stick that kept it in place. It was the placard of the first newspaper to resume publication--the DAILY MAIL. I bought a copy for a blackened shilling I found in my pocket. Most of it was in blank, but the solitary39 compositor who did the thing had amused himself by making a grotesque scheme of advertisement stereo on the back page. The matter he printed was emotional; the news organisation40 had not as yet found its way back. I learned nothing fresh except that already in one week the examination of the Martian mechanisms41 had yielded astonishing results. Among other things, the article assured me what I did not believe at the time, that the "Secret of Flying," was discovered. At Waterloo I found the free trains that were taking people to their homes. The first rush was already over. There were few people in the train, and I was in no mood for casual conversation. I got a compartment42 to myself, and sat with folded arms, looking greyly at the sunlit devastation43 that flowed past the windows. And just outside the terminus the train jolted44 over temporary rails, and on either side of the railway the houses were blackened ruins. To Clapham Junction45 the face of London was grimy with powder of the Black Smoke, in spite of two days of thunderstorms and rain, and at Clapham Junction the line had been wrecked46 again; there were hundreds of out-of-work clerks and shopmen working side by side with the customary navvies, and we were jolted over a hasty relaying.
All down the line from there the aspect of the country was gaunt and unfamiliar47; Wimbledon particularly had suffered. Walton, by virtue48 of its unburned pine woods, seemed the least hurt of any place along the line. The Wandle, the Mole49, every little stream, was a heaped mass of red weed, in appearance between butcher's meat and pickled cabbage. The Surrey pine woods were too dry, however, for the festoons of the red climber. Beyond Wimbledon, within sight of the line, in certain nursery grounds, were the heaped masses of earth about the sixth cylinder50. A number of people were standing51 about it, and some sappers were busy in the midst of it. Over it flaunted52 a Union Jack53, flapping cheerfully in the morning breeze. The nursery grounds were everywhere crimson54 with the weed, a wide expanse of livid colour cut with purple shadows, and very painful to the eye. One's gaze went with infinite relief from the scorched greys and sullen55 reds of the foreground to the blue-green softness of the eastward56 hills.
The line on the London side of Woking station was still undergoing repair, so I descended57 at Byfleet station and took the road to Maybury, past the place where I and the artilleryman had talked to the hussars, and on by the spot where the Martian had appeared to me in the thunderstorm. Here, moved by curiosity, I turned aside to find, among a tangle58 of red fronds59, the warped60 and broken dog cart with the whitened bones of the horse scattered61 and gnawed62. For a time I stood regarding these vestiges63. . . .
Then I returned through the pine wood, neck-high with red weed here and there, to find the landlord of the Spotted64 Dog had already found burial, and so came home past the College Arms. A man standing at an open cottage door greeted me by name as I passed.
I looked at my house with a quick flash of hope that faded immediately. The door had been forced; it was unfast and was opening slowly as I approached.
It slammed again. The curtains of my study fluttered out of the open window from which I and the artilleryman had watched the dawn. No one had closed it since. The smashed bushes were just as I had left them nearly four weeks ago. I stumbled into the hall, and the house felt empty. The stair carpet was ruffled65 and discoloured where I had crouched66, soaked to the skin from the thunderstorm the night of the catastrophe67. Our muddy footsteps I saw still went up the stairs.
I followed them to my study, and found lying on my writing-table still, with the selenite paper weight upon it, the sheet of work I had left on the afternoon of the opening of the cylinder. For a space I stood reading over my abandoned arguments. It was a paper on the probable development of Moral Ideas with the development of the civilising process; and the last sentence was the opening of a prophecy: "In about two hundred years," I had written, "we may expect----" The sentence ended abruptly68. I remembered my inability to fix my mind that morning, scarcely a month gone by, and how I had broken off to get my DAILY CHRONICLE from the newsboy. I remembered how I went down to the garden gate as he came along, and how I had listened to his odd story of "Men from Mars."
I came down and went into the dining room. There were the mutton and the bread, both far gone now in decay, and a beer bottle overturned, just as I and the artilleryman had left them. My home was desolate69. I perceived the folly70 of the faint hope I had cherished so long. And then a strange thing occurred. "It is no use," said a voice. "The house is deserted71. No one has been here these ten days. Do not stay here to torment72 yourself. No one escaped but you."
I was startled. Had I spoken my thought aloud? I turned, and the French window was open behind me. I made a step to it, and stood looking out.
And there, amazed and afraid, even as I stood amazed and afraid, were my cousin and my wife--my wife white and tearless. She gave a faint cry.
"I came," she said. "I knew--knew----"
She put her hand to her throat--swayed. I made a step forward, and caught her in my arms.
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1
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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2
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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3
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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9
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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12
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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14
doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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dissuaded
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| 劝（某人）勿做某事，劝阻( dissuade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
morbidity
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| n.病态；不健全；发病；发病率 | |
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26
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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30
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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32
constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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38
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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39
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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40
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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mechanisms
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| n.机械( mechanism的名词复数 )；机械装置；[生物学] 机制；机械作用 | |
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42
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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43
devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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44
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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46
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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47
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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48
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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49
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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50
cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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51
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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52
flaunted
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| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的过去式和过去分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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53
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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54
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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55
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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56
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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57
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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58
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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fronds
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| n.蕨类或棕榈类植物的叶子( frond的名词复数 ) | |
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60
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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61
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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62
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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64
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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65
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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66
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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68
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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69
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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70
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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71
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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72
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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