[adapted]

by
H. G. Wells

The man with the white face got into the train carriage at Rugby. He moved slowly even though the railway porter was in a hurry, and even while he was still on the platform I noticed how sick he looked. He sat down in the corner opposite me with a sigh, made a weak attempt to arrange his travel blanket, and became still, with his eyes staring blankly. Soon he felt that I was watching him, looked up at me, and reached out a weak hand for his newspaper. Then he looked again in my direction.

I pretended to read. I was afraid I had embarrassed him by accident, and in a moment I was surprised to find him speaking.

“Sorry?” I said. — “That book,” he repeated, pointing a thin finger, “is about dreams.”

“Of course,” I answered, because it was Fortnum-Roscoe’s Dream States, and the title was on the cover.

He was silent for a moment as if he looked for words. “Yes,” he said, at last, “but they tell you nothing.”

I did not understand what he meant at first.

“They don’t know,” he said.

I looked a little more carefully at his face.

“There are dreams,” he said, “and dreams.” That sort of idea I never argue about. “I suppose — ” he paused. “Do you ever dream? I mean very clearly.”

“I dream very little,” I answered. “I don’t think I have three very clear dreams in a year.”

“Ah!” he said, and seemed for a moment to think.

“Your dreams don’t mix with your memories?” he asked suddenly. “You don’t find yourself not sure: did this happen or not?”

“Hardly ever. Except just for a short pause now and then. I think few people do.”

“Does he say — ” he pointed to the book.

“Says it happens at times and gives the usual explanation about how strong the feeling is and things like that to explain why it does not happen usually. I guess you know something about these ideas — ”

“Very little — but they are wrong.”

His very thin hand played with the strap of the window for a time. I got ready to start reading again, and that seemed to cause his next comment. He leaned forward almost as if he would touch me.

“Isn’t there something called repeated dreaming — that goes on night after night?”

“I think there is. There are examples given in most books about mental problems.”

“Mental trouble! Yes. I suppose there are. It’s the right place for them. But what I mean — ” He looked at his thin knuckles. “Is that sort of thing always dreaming? Is it dreaming? Or is it something else? Might it not be something else?”

I should have ignored his constant talking if not for the tired worry on his face. I remember now the look of his pale eyes and the eyelids red and stained — maybe you know that look.

“I’m not just arguing about an opinion,” he said. “The thing is killing me.”

“Dreams?”

“If you call them dreams. Night after night. Clear! — so clear… this — ” (he pointed to the view that was passing by the window) “seems not real compared to them! I can hardly remember who I am, what I am doing …”

He stopped. “Even now — ”

“Do you mean the dream is always the same?” I asked.

“It’s over.”

“You mean?”

“I died.”

“Died?”

“Smashed and killed, and now the part of me that was that dream is dead. Dead for ever. I dreamt I was another man, you know, living in another part of the world and in another time. I dreamt that night after night. Night after night I woke into that other life. New scenes and new events — until I came to the last — ”

“When you died?”

“When I died.”

“And since then — ”

“No,” he said. “Thank God! that was the end of the dream…”

It was clear I was going to have this dream. And, after all, I had an hour ahead of me, the light was fading fast, and Fortnum-Roscoe has a dull way about him. “Living in a different time,” I said: “do you mean in some different age?”

“Yes.”

“Past?”

“No, to come — to come.”

“The year three thousand, for example?”

“I don’t know what year it was. I did when I was asleep, when I was dreaming, I mean, but not now — not now that I am awake. There are a lot of things I have forgotten since I woke from these dreams, but I knew them at the time when I was — I think it was dreaming. They called the year differently from our way of calling the year… What did they call it?” He put his hand to his head. “No,” he said, “I forget.”

He sat smiling weakly. For a moment I was afraid he did not want to tell me his dream. Usually, I hate people who tell their dreams, but this felt different to me. I even offered help. “It began — ” I suggested.

“It was clear from the start. I seemed to wake up in it suddenly. And it’s strange that in these dreams I am talking about I never remembered this life I am living now. It seemed as if the dream life was enough while it lasted. Perhaps — But I will tell you how I find myself when I do my best to remember it all. I don’t remember anything clearly until I found myself sitting on a kind of balcony looking out over the sea. I had been napping, and suddenly I woke up — fresh and clear — not at all like a dream — because the girl had stopped waving a fan at me.”

“The girl?”

“Yes, the girl. You must not interrupt or you will make me forget what I am saying.”

He stopped suddenly. “You won’t think I’m mad?” he said.

“No,” I said; “you’ve been dreaming. Tell me your dream.”

“I woke up, I say, because the girl had stopped waving the fan over me. I was not surprised to find myself there or anything like that, you understand. I did not feel I had fallen into it suddenly. I simply continued it at that point. Whatever memory I had of this life, this nineteenth-century life, faded as I woke, disappeared like a dream. I knew all about myself, knew that my name was no longer Cooper but Hedon, and all about my place in the world. I’ve forgotten a lot since I woke — there’s no connection — but it was all quite clear and normal then.”

He paused again, holding the window strap, leaning forward, and looking up at me as if asking for help.

“This seems like nonsense to you?”

“No, no!” I cried. “Go on. Tell me what this covered balcony was like.”

“It was not really a covered terrace — I don’t know what to call it. It faced south. It was small. It was all in shadow except the half-circle above the balcony that showed the sky and sea and the corner where the girl stood. I was on a couch — it was a metal couch with light striped cushions — and the girl was bending over the balcony with her back to me. The light of the morning sun fell on her ear and cheek. Her pretty white neck and the little curls that rested there, and her white shoulder were in the sun, and all the beauty of her body was in the cool blue shade. She was dressed — how can I describe it? It was loose and light. And altogether there she stood, so that I knew how beautiful and lovely she was, as if I had never seen her before. And when at last I sighed and lifted myself on my arm she turned her face to me — ”

He stopped.

“I have lived fifty-three years in this world. I have had a mother, sisters, friends, a wife and daughters — all their faces, how their faces look, I know. But the face of this girl — it is much more real to me. I can remember it so that I see it again — I could draw it or paint it. And after all — ”

He stopped — but I said nothing.