A Dream of Armageddon (adapted), H. G. Wells
A Dream of Armageddon (adapted)
H. G. Wells
Category: Short Stories
Genres: Science fiction,Dystopian,Psychological fiction
Level 3.21:14 h26.0 mb
A man tells a strange story about a dream that comes to him night after night. In the dream, he sees himself living in the future, where he must make a terrible choice between love and duty. As the dream continues, it grows darker, showing a world moving toward war and destruction. This is an adapted version of the story, simplified to A2 level.

A Dream of Armageddon

[adapted]

by
H. G. Wells

A Dream of Armageddon (adapted)

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.

“The face of a dream — the face of a dream. She was beautiful. Not that beauty which is terrible, cold, and to be worshipped, like the beauty of a saint; nor that beauty that starts strong feelings; but a kind of glow, sweet lips that turned into smiles, and serious gray eyes. And she moved gracefully, she seemed to be part of all pleasant and kind things — ”

He stopped, and his face was turned down and hidden. Then he looked up at me and went on, not trying any more to hide that he was sure his story was real.

“You see, I had given up my plans and dreams, given up all I had ever worked for or wanted, for her. I had been an important man far away in the north, with power and land and a good name, but none of it had seemed worth having next to her. I had come to the place, this city of sunny pleasures, with her, and left all those things to go to ruin just to save at least a small part of my life. While I had been in love with her before I knew that she cared for me, before I had imagined that she would dare — that we would dare — all my life had seemed empty and hollow, dust and ashes. It was dust and ashes. Night after night, and through the long days I had longed and wanted — my soul had beaten against the thing not allowed!

“But it is impossible for one man to tell another just these things. It’s feeling, it’s a color, a light that comes and goes. Only when it’s there, everything changes, everything. The thing is I went away and left them in their trouble to do what they could.”

“Left who?” I asked, confused.

“The people up in the north there. You see — in this dream, anyway — I had been a big man, the kind of man men come to trust, to gather around. Millions of men who had never seen me were ready to do things and risk things because of their trust in me. I had been playing that game for years, that big hard game, that unclear, terrible political game among plots and betrayals, speeches and unrest. It was a huge, restless world, and at last I had a sort of leadership against the Gang — you know it was called the Gang — a kind of mix of bad plans and low ambitions and huge public emotional foolishness and slogans — the Gang that kept the world noisy and blind year by year, and all the time that it was drifting, drifting towards endless disaster. But I can’t expect you to understand the details and complications of the year — the year something or other ahead. I had it all — down to the smallest details — in my dream.

I think I had been dreaming of it before I woke up, and the faint picture of some strange new thing I had imagined still stayed with me as I rubbed my eyes. It was some dirty business that made me thank God for the sunlight. I sat up on the couch and kept looking at the woman, and was glad — glad that I had come away out of all that noise and foolishness and violence before it was too late. After all, I thought, this is life — love and beauty, desire and joy, aren’t they worth all those sad struggles for not clear, huge goals? And I blamed myself for ever trying to be a leader when I could have given my days to love. But then, I thought, if I had not spent my early days strictly and plainly, I might have wasted myself on proud and useless women, and at the thought all my heart went out in love and gentleness to my dear mistress, my dear lady, who had come at last and forced me — forced me by her strong charm for me — to put that life aside.

“‘You are worth it,’ I said, speaking without wanting her to hear; ‘you are worth it, my dearest one; worth pride and praise and everything. Love! to have you is worth all of them together.’ And at the soft sound of my voice she turned around.

“‘Come and see,’ she called — I can hear her now — come and see the sunrise on Monte Solaro.’

“I remember how I stood up quickly and joined her at the balcony. She put her white hand on my shoulder and pointed to big limestone rocks shining, as if they came to life. I looked. But first I noticed the sunlight on her face, softly touching the shape of her cheeks and neck. How can I tell you about the view in front of us? We were at Capri — ”