Владимир Владимирович Набоков (1899-1977)

Русский и американский писатель, поэт, переводчик, литературовед и энтомолог.

Nabokov's interview. (04) Life [1964]

      On August 18, 1964, Jane Howard of Life magazine sent me eleven questions. I have kept the typescript of my replies. In mid-September she arrived in Montreux with the photographer Henry Grossman. Text and pictures appeared in the November 20 issue of Life.

      What writers and persons and places have influenced you most?

      In my boyhood I was an extraordinarily avid reader. By the age of 14 or 15 I had read or re-read all Tolstoy in Russian, all Shakespeare in English, and all Flaubert in French-- besides hundreds of other books. Today I can always tell when a sentence I compose happens to resemble in cut and intonation that of any of the writers I loved or detested half a century ago; but I do not believe that any particular writer has had any definite influence upon me. As to the influence of places and persons, I owe many metaphors and sensuous associations to the North Russian landscape of my boyhood, and I am also aware that my father was responsible for my appreciating very early in life the thrill of a great poem.

      Have you ever seriously contemplated a career other than in letters?

      Frankly, I never thought of letters as a career. Writing has always been for me a blend of dejection and high spirits, a torture and a pastime-- but I never expected it to be a source of income. On the other hand, I have often dreamt of a long and exciting career as an obscure curator of lepidoptera in a great museum.

      Which of your writings has pleased you most?

      I would say that of all my books Lolita has left me with the most pleasurable afterglow-- perhaps because it is the purest of all, the most abstract and carefully contrived. I am probably responsible for the odd fact that people don't seem to name their daughters Lolita any more. I have heard of young female poodles being given that name since 1956, but of no human beings. Well-wishers have tried to translate Lolita into Russian, but with such execrable results that I'm now doing a translation myself. The word "jeans," for example, is translated in Russian dictionaries as "wide, short trousers"-- a totally unsatisfactory definition.

      In the foreword to The Defense you allude to psychiatry. Do you think the dependence of analyzed on analysts is a great danger?

      I cannot conceive bow anybody in his right mind should go to a psychoanalyst, but of course if one's mind is deranged one might try anything; after all, quacks and cranks, shamans and holy men, kings and hypnotists have cured people-- especially hysterical people. Our grandsons no doubt will regard today's psychoanalysts with the same amused contempt as we do astrology and phrenology. One of the greatest pieces of charlatanic, and satanic, nonsense imposed on a gullible public is the Freudian interpretation of dreams. I take gleeful pleasure every morning in refuting the Viennese quack by recalling and explaining the details of my dreams without using one single reference to sexual symbols or mythical complexes. I urge my potential patients to do likewise.

      How do your views on politics and religion affect what you write?

      I have never belonged to any political party but have always loathed and despised dictatorships and police states, as well as any sort of oppression. This goes for regimentation of thought, governmental censorship, racial or religious persecution, and all the rest of it. Whether or not my simple credo affects my writing does not interest me. I suppose that my indifference to religion is of the same nature as my dislike of group activities in the domain of political or civic commitments. I have allowed some of my creatures in some of my novels to be restless freethinkers but here again I do not care one bit what kind of faith or brand of non-faith my reader may assign to their maker.

      Would you have liked to have lived at a time other than this?

      My choice of "when" would be influenced by that of "where." As a matter of fact, I would have to construct a mosaic of time and space to suit my desires and demands. It would be too complicated to tabulate all the elements of this combination. But I know pretty well what it should include. It should include a warm climate, daily baths, an absence of radio music and traffic noise, the honey of ancient Persia, a complete microfilm library, and the unique and indescribable rapture of learning more and more about the moon and the planets. In other words, I think I would like my head to be in the United States of the nineteen-sixties, but would not mind distributing some of my other organs and limbs through various centuries and countries.

      With what living writers do you feel a particular sympathy?

      When Mr. N. learns from an interview that Mr. X., another writer, has named as his favorites Mr. A., Mr. B. and Mr. N., this inclusion may puzzle Mr. N. who considers, say, Mr. A.'s work to be primitive and trite. I would not like to puzzle Mr. C., Mr. D., or Mr. X., all of whom I like.

      Do you anticipate that more of your works will be made into films? On the basis of Lolita, does the prospect please you?

      I greatly admired the film Lolita as a film-- but was sorry not to have been given an opportunity to collaborate in its actual making. People who liked my novel said the film was too reticent and incomplete. If, however, all the next pictures based on my books are as charming as Kubrick's, I shall not grumble too much.

      Which of the languages you speak do you consider the most beautiful?

      My head says English, my heart, Russian, my ear, French.

      Why do you prefer Montreux as a headquarters? Do you in any way miss the America you parodied so exquisitely in Lolita^ Do you find that Europe and the US are coming to resemble each other to a discouraging degree?

      I think I am trying to develop, in this rosy exile, the same fertile nostalgia in regard to America, my new country, as I evolved for Russia, my old one, in the first post-revolution years of West-European expatriation. Of course, I miss America-- even Miss America. If Europe and America are coming to resemble each other more and more-- why should I be discouraged? Amusing, perhaps, and, perhaps, not quite true, but certainly not discouraging in any sense I can think of. My wife and I are very fond of Montreux, the scenery of which I needed for Pale Fire, and still need for another book. There are also family reasons for our living in this part of Europe. I have a sister in Geneva and a son in Milan. He is a graduate of Harvard who came to Italy to complete his operatic training, which he combines with racing an Italian car in major events and translating the early works of his father from Russian into English.

      What is your prognosis for the health of Russian letters?

      There is no plain answer to your question. The trouble is that no government however intelligent or humane is capable of generating great artists, although a bad government certainly can pester, thwart, and suppress them. We must also remember-- and this is very important-- that the only people who flourish under all types of government are the Philistines. In the aura of mild regimes there is exactly as rare a chance of a great artist's appearing on the scene as there is in the less happy times of despicable dictatorships. Therefore I cannot predict anything though I certainly hope that under the influence of the West, and especially under that of America, the Soviet police state will gradually wither away. Incidentally, I deplore the attitude of foolish or dishonest people who ridiculously equate Stalin with McCarthy, Auschwitz with the atom bomb, and the ruthless imperialism of the USSR with the earnest and unselfish assistance extended by the USA to nations in distress.

      P.S.

      Dear Miss Howard, allow me to add the following three points:

      1) My answers must be published accurately and completely: verbatim, if quoted; in a faithful version, if not.

      2) I must see the proofs of the interview-- semifinal and final.

      3) I have the right to correct therein all factual errors and specific slips ("Mr. Nabokov is a small man with long hair," etc.)

Pastor Greg Laurie talks with Mel Gibson about his upcoming film projects.

First edition cover

Author H.G. Wells
Country United Kingdom
Language English
Genre Horror, Science fiction novel
Published 1897 (C. Arthur Pearson)
Media type Print (hardback & paperback)
Pages 149

The Invisible Man is a science fiction novella by H. G. Wells. Originally serialized in Pearson's Weekly in 1897, it was published as a novel the same year. The Invisible Man of the title is Griffin, a scientist who has devoted himself to research into optics and invents a way to change a body's refractive index to that of air so that it neither absorbs nor reflects light and thus becomes invisible. He successfully carries out this procedure on himself, but fails in his attempt to reverse it.

While its predecessors, The Time Machine and The Island of Doctor Moreau, were written using first-person narrators, Wells adopts a third-person objective point of view in The Invisible Man.

Herbert George Wells

THE INVISIBLE MAN

CHAPTER I

THE STRANGE MAN’S ARRIVAL

The stranger came early in February, one wintry day, through a biting wind and a driving snow, the last snowfall of the year, over the down, walking from Bramblehurst Railway Station, and carrying a little black portmanteau in his thickly–gloved hand. He was wrapped up from head to foot, and the brim of his soft felt hat hid every inch of his face save the shiny tip of his nose; the snow had piled itself against his shoulders and chest, and added a white crest to the burden he carried. He staggered into the “Coach and Horses” more dead than alive, and flung his portmanteau down. “A fire,” he cried, “in the name of human charity! A room and a fire!” He stamped and shook the snow from off himself in the bar, and followed Mrs. Hall into her guest parlour to strike his bargain.[1] And with that much introduction,[2] that and a couple of sovereigns flung upon the table, he took up his quarters in the inn.

Mrs. Hall lit the fire and left him there while she went to prepare him a meal with her own hands. A guest to stop at Iping in the winter time was an unheard–of piece of luck, let alone a guest who was no “haggler”,[3] and she was resolved to show herself worthy of her good fortune.

As soon as the bacon was well under way, and Millie, her lymphatic aid,[4] had been brisked up a bit by a few deftly chosen expressions of contempt, she carried the cloth, plates, and glasses into the parlour, and began to lay them with the utmost éclat.[5] Although the fire was burning up briskly, she was surprised to see that her visitor still wore his hat and coat, and stood with his back to her and staring out of the window at the falling snow in the yard.

His gloved hands were clasped behind him, and he seemed to be lost in thought. She noticed that the melted snow that still sprinkled his shoulders dripped upon her carpet.

“Can I take your hat and coat, sir,” she said, “and give them a good dry in the kitchen?”

“No,” he said, without turning.

She was not sure she had heard him, and was about to repeat her question.

He turned his head and looked at her over his shoulder. “I prefer to keep them on,” he said with emphasis; and she noticed that he wore big blue spectacles with side–lights,[6] and had a bushy side whisker over his coat collar that completely hid his face.

“Very well, sir,” she said. “As you like. In a bit the room will be warmer.”

He made no answer, and turned his face away from her again, and Mrs. Hall, feeling that her conversational advances were ill–timed,[7] laid the rest of the table things in a quick staccato[8] manner, and whisked out of the room. When she returned he was still standing there like a man of stone, his back hunched, his collar turned up, his dripping hat–brim turned down, hiding his face and ears completely. She put down the eggs and bacon with considerable emphasis, and called rather than said to him:

“Your lunch is served, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said at the same time, and did not stir until she was closing the door. Then he swung round and approached the table with a certain eagerness.

As she went behind the bar to the kitchen she heard a sound repeated at regular intervals. Chirk, chirk, chirk, it went, the sound of a spoon being whisked rapidly round a basin. “That girl!” she said. “There! I clean forgot it. It’s her being so long!” And while she herself finished mixing the mustard, she gave Millie a few verbal stabs[9] for her excessive slowness. She had cooked the ham and eggs, laid the table, and done everything, while Millie (help, indeed!) had only succeeded in delaying the mustard. And him a new guest, and wanting to stay! Then she filled the mustard–pot, and, putting it with some stateliness upon a gold and black tea–tray, carried it into the parlour.

She rapped and entered promptly. As she did so her visitor moved quickly, so that she got but a glimpse of a white object disappearing behind the table. It would seem he was picking something from the floor. She rapped down the mustard–pot on the table, and then she noticed the overcoat and hat had been taken off and put over a chair in front of the fire. A pair of wet boots threatened rust to her steel fender. She went to these things resolutely. “I suppose I may have them to dry now?” she said, in a voice that brooked no denial.

“Leave the hat,” said her visitor in a muffled voice, and turning, she saw he had raised his head and was looking at her.

For a moment she stood gazing at him, too surprised to speak.

He held a white cloth—it was a serviette he had brought with him—over the lower part of his face, so that his mouth and jaws were completely hidden, and that was the reason of his muffled voice. But it was not that which startled Mrs. Hall. It was the fact that all the forehead above his blue glasses was covered by a white bandage, and that another covered his ears, leaving not a scrap of his face exposed excepting only his pink, peaked nose. It was bright pink, and shining, just as it had been at first. He wore a dark brown velvet jacket, with a high, black, linen–lined collar turned up about his neck. The thick black hair, escaping as it could below and between the cross bandages, projected in curious tails and horns, giving him the strangest appearance conceivable. This muffled and bandaged head was so unlike what she had anticipated that for a moment she was rigid.

He did not remove the serviette, but remained holding it, as she saw now, with a brown gloved hand, and regarding her with his inscrutable blank glasses. “Leave the hat,” he said, speaking indistinctly through the white cloth.

Her nerves began to recover from the shock they had received. She placed the hat on the chair again by the fire. “I didn’t know, sir,” she began, "that—" And she stopped, embarrassed.

“Thank you,” he said dryly, glancing from her to the door, and then at her again.

“I’ll have them nicely dried,[10] sir, at once,” she said, and carried his clothes out of the room. She glanced at his white–swathed head and blank goggles again as she was going out of the door; but his napkin was still in front of his face. She shivered a little as she closed the door behind her, and her face was eloquent of her surprise and perplexity.[11] “I never!” she whispered. “There!”[12] She went quite softly to the kitchen, and was too preoccupied to ask Millie what she was messing about with now,[13] when she got there.

The visitor sat and listened to her retreating feet. He glanced inquiringly at the window before he removed his serviette, and resumed his meal. He took a mouthful, glanced suspiciously at the window, took another mouthful; then rose and, taking the serviette in his hand, walked across the room and pulled the blind down to the top of the white muslin that obscured the lower panes. This plunged the room in twilight. He returned with an easier air to the table and his meal.

“The poor soul’s had an accident, or an op’ration or somethin’,” said Mrs. Hall. “What a turn them bandages did give me[14] to be sure!”

She put on some more coal, unfolded the clothe–horse, and extended the traveller’s coat upon this. “And they goggles! Why, he looked more like a divin’ ’elmet[15] than a human man!” She hung his muffler on a corner of the horse. “And holding that handkerchief over his mouth all the time. Talkin’ through it!… Perhaps his mouth was hurt too—maybe.”

She turned round, as one who suddenly remembers. “Bless my soul alive!”[16] she said, going off at a tangent, “ain’t you done them taters[17] yet, Millie?”

When Mrs. Hall went to clear away the stranger’s lunch her idea that his mouth must also have been cut or disfigured in the accident she supposed him to have suffered was confirmed, for he was smoking a pipe, and all the time that she was in the room he never loosened the silk muffler he had wrapped round the lower part of his face to put the mouthpiece to his lips. Yet it was not forgetfulness, for she saw he glanced at the tobacco as it smouldered out. He sat in the corner with his back to the window–blind, and spoke now, having eaten and drunk and being comfortably warmed through, with less aggressive brevity than before. The reflection of the fire lent a kind of red animation to his big spectacles they had lacked hitherto.

“I have some luggage,” he said, “at Bramblehurst Station,” and he asked her how he could have it sent. He bowed his bandaged head quite politely in acknowledgment of her explanation. “To–morrow!” he said. “There is no speedier delivery?” and seemed disappointed when she answered “No.” “Was she quite sure? No man with a trap who would go over?”[18]

Mrs. Hall, nothing loath, answered his questions, and then developed a conversation. “It’s a steep road by the down, sir,” she said, in answer to the question about a trap; and then snatching at an opening[19] said, “It was there a carriage was upsettled,[20] a year ago and more. A gentleman killed, besides his coachman. Accidents, sir, happen in a moment, don’t they?”

But the visitor was not to be drawn so easily.[21] “They do,” he said, through his muffler, eyeing her quietly from behind his impenetrable glasses.

“But they take long enough to get well, sir, don’t they? There was my sister’s son, Tom, jest[22] cut his arm with a scythe—tumbled on it in the ’ayfield—and bless me! he was three months tied up, sir. You’d hardly believe it. It’s regular[23] give me a dread of a scythe, sir.”

“I can quite understand that,” said the visitor.

“We was afraid, one time, that he’d have to have an op’ration, he was that bad, sir.”

The vistor laughed abruptly—a bark of a laugh[24] that he seemed to bite and kill in his mouth. “Was he?” he said.

“He was, sir. And no laughing matter to them as had the doing for him[25] as I had, my sister being took up with her little ones so much. There was bandages to do, sir, and bandages to undo. So that if I may make so bold as to say it, sir—”

“Will you get me some matches?” said the visitor quite abruptly. “My pipe is out.”

Mrs. Hall was pulled up suddenly. It was certainly rude of him after telling him all she had done. She gasped at him for a moment, and remembered the two sovereigns. She went for the matches.

“Thanks,” he said concisely, as she put them down, and turned his shoulder upon her and stared out of the window again. Evidently he was sensitive on the topic of operations and bandages. She did not “make so bold as to say,” after all. But his snubbing way had irritated her, and Millie had a hot time of it[26] that afternoon.

The visitor remained in the parlour until four o’clock, without giving the ghost of an excuse for an intrusion. For the most part he was quite still during that time: it would seem he sat in the growing darkness, smoking by the firelight—perhaps dozing.

Once or twice a curious listener might have heard him at the coals,[27] and for the space of five minutes he was audible pacing the room. He seemed to be talking to himself. Then the armchair creaked as he sat down again.

CHAPTER II

MR. TEDDY HENFREY’s FIRST IMPRESSIONS

At four o’clock, when it was fairly dark, and Mrs. Hall was screwing up her courage to go in and ask her visitor if he would take some tea, Teddy Henfrey, the clock–jobber,[1] came into the bar.

“My sakes,[2] Mrs. Hall,” said he, “but this is terrible weather for thin boots!” The snow outside was falling faster.

Mrs. Hall agreed, and then noticed he had his bag with him. “Now you’re here, Mr. Teddy,” said she, “I’d be glad if you’d give th’ old clock in the parlour a bit of a look. ’Tis going, and it strikes well and hearty, but the hour hand won’t do nothin’ but point at six.”

And leading the way, she went across to the parlour door and rapped and entered.

Her visitor, she saw, as she opened the door, was seated in the armchair before the fire, dozing, it would seem, with his bandaged head drooping on one side. The only light in the room was the red glow from the fire. Everything was ruddy, shadowy, and indistinct to her, the more so since she had just been lighting the bar lamp, and her eyes were dazzled. But for a second it seemed to her that the man she looked at had an enormous mouth wide open, a vast and incredible mouth that swallowed the whole of the lower portion of his face. It was the sensation of a moment; the white–bound head, the monstrous goggle eyes, and this huge yawn below it. Then he stirred, started up in his chair, put up his hand. She opened the door wide so that the room was lighter, and she saw him more clearly, with the muffler held to his face, just as she had seen him hold the serviette before. The shadows, she fancied, had tricked her.

“Would you mind, sir, this man a–coming to look at the clock, sir?” she said, recovering from her momentary disorder.

“Look at the clock?” he said, staring round in a drowsy manner, and speaking over his hand; and then, getting more fully awake, “Certainly.”

Mrs. Hall went away to get a lamp, and he rose and stretched himself. Then came the light, and Mr. Teddy Henfrey, entering, was confronted by this bandaged person. He was, he says, “taken aback.”

“Good afternoon,” said the stranger, regarding him—as Mr. Henfrey says, with a vivid sense of the dark spectacles—[3] “like a lobster.”

“I hope,” said Mr. Henfrey, “that it’s no intrusion.”

“None whatever,” said the stranger. “Though I understand,” he said, turning to Mrs. Hall, “that this room is really to be mine for my own private use.”

“I thought, sir,” said Mrs. Hall, “you’d prefer the clock—”

“Certainly,” said the stranger, “certainly; but as a rule I like to be alone and undisturbed.”

He turned round with his back to the fireplace, and put his hands behind his back. “And presently,” he said, “when the clock–mending is over, I think I should like to have some tea. But not till the clock–mending is over.”

Mrs. Hall was about to leave the room—she made no conversational advances this time, because she did not want to be snubbed in front of Mr. Henfrey—when her visitor asked her if she had made any arrangements about his boxes at Bramblehurst. She told him she had mentioned the matter to the postman, and that the carrier could bring them over on the morrow.

“You are certain that is the earliest?” he said.

She was certain, with a marked coolness.[4]

“I should explain,” he added, “what I was really too cold and fatigued to do before, that I am an experimental investigator."

“Indeed, sir,” said Mrs. Hall, much impressed.

“And my baggage contains apparatus and appliances.”

“Very useful things indeed they are, sir,” said Mrs. Hall.

“And I’m naturally anxious to get on with my inquiries.”

“Of course, sir.”

“My reason for coming to Iping,” he proceeded, with a certain deliberation of manner, “was… a desire for solitude. I do not wish to be disturbed in my work. In addition to my work, an accident—"

“I thought as much,” said Mrs. Hall to herself.

“Necessitates a certain retirement. My eyes are sometimes so weak and painful that I have to shut myself up in the dark for hours together—lock myself up. Sometimes—now and then. Not at present, certainly. At such times the slightest disturbance, the entry of a stranger into the room, is a source of excruciating annoyance to me… It is well these things should be understood.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Mrs. Hall. “And if I might make so bold as to ask—”

“That, I think, is all,” said the stranger, with that quietly irresistible air of finality he could assume at will. Mrs. Hall reserved her question and sympathy for a better occasion.

After Mrs. Hall had left the room he remained standing in front of the fire, glaring, so Mr. Henfrey puts it, at the clock–mending. Mr. Henfrey worked with the lamp close to him, and the green shade threw a brilliant light upon his hands and upon the frame and wheels, and left the rest of the room shadowy. When he looked up coloured patches swam in his eyes. Being constitutionally of a curious nature, he had removed the works—a quite unnecessary proceeding—with the idea of delaying his departure and perhaps falling into conversation with the stranger. But the stranger stood there, perfectly silent and still. So still—it got on Henfrey’s nerves. He felt alone in the room and looked up, and there, gray and dim, was the bandaged head and huge, dark lenses, staring fixedly, with a mist of green spots drifting in front of them. It was so uncanny to Henfrey that for a minute they remained staring blankly at one another. Then Henfrey looked down again. Very uncomfortable position! One would like to say something. Should he remark that the weather was very cold for the time of the year?

He looked up as if to take aim with that introductory shot. "The weather—" he began.

“Why don’t you finish and go?” said the rigid figure, evidently in a state of painfully suppressed rage. “All you’ve got to do is to fix the hour hand on its—axle. You’re simply humbugging.”

“Certainly, sir—one minute more. I overlooked…” And Mr. Henfrey finished and went.

But he went off feeling excessively annoyed. “Damn it!” said Mr. Henfrey to himself, trudging down the village through the falling snow, “a man must do a clock at times, sure–ly.”

And again, “Can’t a man look at you? Ugly!”

And yet again, “Seemingly not. If the police was wanting you, you couldn’t be more wrapped and bandaged.”

At Gleeson’s corner he saw Hall, who had recently married the stranger’s hostess at the “Coach and Horses,” and who now drove the Iping conveyance, when occasional people required it, to Sidderbridge Junction, coming towards him on his return from that place. Hall had evidently been “stopping a bit” at Sidderbridge, to judge by his driving. “’Ow do, Teddy?” he said, passing.

“You got a rum un[5] up home!” said Teddy.

Hall very sociably pulled up. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Rum–looking customer stopping at the ‘Coach and Horses,’ ” said Teddy. “My sakes!”

And he proceeded to give Hall a vivid description of his wife’s grotesque guest. “Looks a bit like a disguise, don’t it? I’d like to see a man’s face if I had him stopping in my place,” said Henfrey. “But women are that trustful—where strangers are concerned. He’s took your rooms, and he ain’t even given a name, Hall.”

“You don’t say so,”[6] said Hall, who was a man of sluggish apprehension.

“Yes,” said Teddy. “By the week.[7] Whatever he is, you can’t get rid of him under the week.[7] And he’s got a lot of luggage coming to–morrow, so he says. Let’s hope it won’t be stones in boxes, Hall.”

He told Hall how his aunt at Hastings had been swindled by a stranger with empty portmanteaux. Altogether he left Hall vaguely suspicious. “Get up, old girl,”[8] said Hall. “I s’pose I must see ’bout this.”

Teddy trudged on his way with his mind considerably relieved.

Instead of “seeing ’bout it,” however, Hall on his return, was severely rated by his wife on the length of time he had spent in Sidderbridge, and his mild inquiries were answered snappishly and in a manner not to the point. But the seed of suspicion Teddy had sown germinated in the mind of Mr. Hall in spite of these discouragements. “You wim’[9] don’t know everything,” said Mr. Hall, resolved to ascertain more about the personality of his guest at the earliest possible opportunity. And after the stranger had gone to bed, which he did about half–past nine, Mr. Hall went aggressively into the parlour, and looked very hard at his wife’s furniture, just to show that the stranger wasn’t master there, and scrutinised a little contemptuously a sheet of mathematical computations the stranger had left. When retiring for the night, he instructed Mrs. Hall to look very closely at the stranger’s luggage when it came next day.

“You mind your own business, Hall,” said Mrs. Hall, “and I’ll mind mine.”

She was all the more inclined to snap at Hall because the stranger was undoubtedly an unusually strange sort of stranger, and she was by no means assured about him in her own mind. In the middle of the night she woke up dreaming of huge, white heads like turnips, that came trailing after her, at the end of interminable necks, and with vast black eyes. But being a sensible woman, she subdued her terrors, and turned over and went to sleep again.

Herbert George Wells

THE INVISIBLE MAN

CHAPTER IV

MR. CUSS INTERVIEWS THE STRANGER

I have told the circumstances of the stranger’s arrival in Iping with a certain fullness of detail, in order that the curious impression he created may be understood by the reader. But excepting two odd incidents, the circumstances of his stay until the extraordinary day of the club festival may be passed over very cursorily. There were a number of skirmishes with Mrs. Hall on matters of domestic discipline, but in every case until late in April, when the first signs of penury began, he overrode her by the easy expedient of an extra payment.[1] Hall did not like him, and whenever he dared he talked of the advisability of getting rid of him; but he showed his dislike mainly by concealing it ostentatiously, and avoiding his visitor as much as possible. “Wait till the summer,” said Mrs. Hall sagely, “when the artisks[2] are beginning to come. Then we’ll see. He may be a bit overbearing, but bills settled punctual is bills settled punctual, whatever you likes to say.”

The stranger did not go to church, and indeed made no difference between Sunday and the irreligious days, even in costume. He worked, as Mrs. Hall thought, very fitfully. Some days he would[3] come down early and be continuously busy. On others he would rise late, pace his room, fretting audibly for hours together, smoke, or sleep in the arm–chair by the fire. Communication with the world beyond the village he had none.[4] His temper continued very uncertain; for the most part his manner was that of a man suffering under almost unendurable provocation, and once or twice things were snapped, torn, crushed, or broken in spasmodic gusts of violence. His habit of talking to himself in a low voice grew steadily upon him,[5] but though Mrs. Hall listened conscientiously she could make neither head nor tail of[6] what she heard.

He rarely went abroad by day, but at twilight he would go out muffled up enormously, whether the weather was cold or not, and he chose the loneliest paths and those most over–shadowed by trees and banks. His goggling spectacles and ghastly, bandaged face under the penthouse of his hat came with a disagreeable suddenness out of the darkness upon one or two home–going labourers; and Teddy Henfrey, tumbling out of the “Scarlet Coat” one night at half–past nine, was scared shamefully by the stranger’s skull–like head (he was walking hat in hand) lit by the sudden light of the opened inn door. Such children as saw him at nightfall dreamt of bogeys, and it seemed doubtful whether he disliked boys more than they disliked him, or the reverse; but there was certainly a vivid enough dislike on either side.

It was inevitable that a person of so remarkable an appearance and bearing should form a frequent topic in such a village as Iping. Opinion was greatly divided about his occupation. Mrs. Hall was sensitive on the point. When questioned, she explained very carefully that he was an “experimental investigator,” going gingerly over the syllables[7] as one who dreads pitfalls. When asked what an experimental investigator was, she would say with a touch of superiority that most educated people knew such things as that, and would then explain that he “discovered things.” Her visitor had had an accident, she said, which temporarily discoloured his face and hands, and being of a sensitive disposition was averse to any public notice of the fact.

Out of her hearing there was a view largely entertained that[8] he was a criminal trying to escape from justice by wrapping himself altogether from the eye of the police. This idea sprang from the brain of Mr. Teddy Henfrey. No crime of any magnitude dating from the middle or end of February was known to have occurred. Elaborated in the imagination of Mr. Gould, the probationary assistant in the National School,[9] this theory took the form that the stranger was an anarchist in disguise, preparing explosives, and he resolved to undertake such detective operations as his time permitted. These consisted for the most part in looking very hard at the stranger whenever they met, or in asking people who had never seen the stranger leading questions about him. But he detected nothing.

Another school of opinion followed Mr. Fearenside, and either accepted the piebald view or some modification of it.[10] As, for instance, Silas Durgan who was heard to assert that “if he chose to show enself at fairs he’d make his fortune in no time,” and being a bit of a theologian compared the stranger to the man with the one talent.[11] Yet another view explained the entire matter by regarding the stranger as a harmless lunatic. That had the advantage of accounting for everything straight away. Between these main groups there were waverers and compromisers. Sussex folk have few superstitions, and it was only after the events of early April that the thought of the supernatural was first whispered in the village. Even then it was only credited among the women–folk.

But whenever they thought of him, people in Iping on the whole agreed in disliking him. His irritability, though it might have been comprehensible to an urban brain–worker,[12] was an amazing thing to these quiet Sussex villagers. The frantic gesticulations they surprised now and then,[13] the headlong pace after nightfall that swept him upon them round quiet corners,[14] the inhuman bludgeoning of all the tentative advances of curiosity, the taste for twilight that led to the closing of doors, the pulling down of blinds, the extinction of candles and lamps—who could agree with such goings on? They drew aside as he passed down the village, and when he had gone by, young humorists would up with coat collars and down with hat brims,[15] and go pacing nervously after him in imitation of his occult bearing. There was a song popular at that time called “The Bogey Man!” Miss Satchell sang it at the schoolroom concert—in aid of the church lamps—[16] and thereafter, whenever one or two of the villagers were gathered together and the stranger appeared, a bar or so of this tune, more or less sharp or flat,[17] was whistled in the midst of them. Also belated little children would call “Bogey Man!” after him, and make off, tremulously elated.

Cuss, the general practitioner, was devoured by curiosity. The bandages excited his professional interest; the report of the thousand–and–one bottles aroused his jealous regard. All through April and May he coveted an opportunity of talking to the stranger, and at last, towards Whitsuntide, he could stand it no longer, but hit upon[18] the subscription list for a village nurse as an excuse. He was surprised to find that Mr. Hall did not know his guest’s name.

“He gave a name,” said Mrs. Hall—an assertion which was quite unfounded—“but I didn’t rightly hear it.” She thought it seemed so silly not to know the man’s name.

Cuss rapped at the parlour door and entered. There was a fairly audible imprecation from within.

“Pardon my intrusion,” said Cuss, and then the door closed and cut Mrs. Hall off from the rest of the conversation.

She could hear the murmur of voices for the next ten minutes, then a cry of surprise, a stirring of feet, a chair flung aside, a bark of laughter, quick steps to the door, and Cuss appeared, his face white, his eyes staring over his shoulder. He left the door open behind him, and, without looking at her, strode across the hall and went down the steps, and she heard his feet hurrying along the road. He carried his hat in his hand. She stood behind the bar, looking at the open door of the parlour. Then she heard the stranger laughing quietly, and his footsteps came across the room. She could not see his face where she stood. The parlour door slammed, and the place was silent again.

Cuss went straight up the village to Bunting, the vicar.

“Am I mad?” Cuss began abruptly, as he entered the shabby little study. “Do I look like an insane person?”

“What’s happened?” said the vicar, putting the ammonite[19] on the loose sheets of his forthcoming sermon.

“That chap at the inn—”

“Well?”

“Give me something to drink,” said Cuss, and he sat down.

When his nerves had been steadied by a glass of cheap sherry—the only drink the good vicar had available—he told him of the interview he had just had.

“Went in,”[20] he gasped, “and began to demand a subscription for that nurse fund.[21] He’d stuck his hands in his pockets as I came in, and he sat down lumpily in his chair. Sniffed. I told him I’d heard he took an interest in scientific things. He said, ‘Yes.’ Sniffed again. Kept on sniffing all the time, evidently recently caught an infernal cold. No wonder—wrapped up like that. I developed the nurse idea, and all the while kept my eyes open. Bottles—chemicals—everywhere. Balance, test tubes, in stands, and a smell of—evening primrose. Would he subscribe?[22] Said he’d consider it. Asked him point blank was he researching. Said he was. A long research? Got quite cross, a ‘damnable long research,’ said he, blowing the cork out,[23] so to speak. ‘Oh?’ said I. And out came the grievance.[24] The man was just on the boil, and my question boiled him over.[25] He had been given a prescription— most valuable prescription—what for he wouldn’t say. Was it medical? ‘Damn you! what are you fishing after?’ I apologised. Dignified sniff and cough. He resumed. He’d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned his head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm."

“Well?”

“No hand. Just an empty sleeve. Lord! I thought, that’s a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, I thought, there’s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open if there’s nothing in it? There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth. ‘Good God!’ I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those blank, goggled eyes of his, and then at his sleeve.”

“Well?”

“That’s all. He never said a word, just glared and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly. ‘I was saying,’ said he, ‘that there was the prescription burning, wasn’t I?’ Interrogative cough. ‘How the devil,’ said I, ‘can you move an empty sleeve like that?’ ‘Empty sleeve?’ ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘an empty sleeve.’”

“ ‘It’s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve?’ He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn’t flinch, though I’m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers,[26] aren’t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you.”

“ ‘You said it was an empty sleeve?’ he said. ‘Certainly,’ I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch.[27] Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me, as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. ‘Well?’ said I, clearing my throat; ‘there’s nothing in it.’”

“Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see right down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly—just like that—until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to see an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then—"

“Well?”

“Something—exactly like a finger and a thumb it felt—nipped my nose.”

Bunting began to laugh.

“There wasn’t anything there!” said Cuss—his voice running up into a shriek at the “there.” “It’s all very well for you to laugh, but I tell you I was so startled, I hit his cuff hard, and turned round and cut out of the room—[28] I left him—”

Cuss stopped. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his panic. He turned round in a helpless way, and took a second glass of the excellent vicar’s very inferior sherry. “When I hit his cuff,” said Cuss, “I tell you, it felt exactly like hitting an arm.”

“And there wasn’t an arm! There wasn’t the ghost of an arm!”

Mr. Bunting thought it over. He looked suspiciously at Cuss. “It’s a most remarkable story,” he said. He looked very wise and grave indeed. “It’s really,” said Mr. Bunting with judicial emphasis, “a most remarkable story.”

CHAPTER V

THE BURGLARY AT THE VICARAGE

The facts of the burglary at the Vicarage come to us chiefly through the medium of the vicar and his wife. It occurred in the small hours of Whit Monday, the day devoted in Iping to the Club festivities. Mrs. Bunting, it seems, woke up suddenly in the stillness that comes before the dawn, with a strong impression that the door of their bedroom had opened and closed. She did not arouse her husband at first, but sat up in bed listening. She then distinctly heard the pad, pad, pad of bare feet coming out of the adjoining dressing–room and walking along the passage towards the staircase. So soon as she felt assured of this, she aroused the Rev. Mr. Bunting as quietly as possible. He did not strike a light, but putting on his spectacles, her dressing–gown, and his bath slippers, went out on the landing to listen. He heard quite distinctly a fumbling going on at his study desk downstairs, and then a violent sneeze.

At that he returned to his bedroom, armed himself with the most obvious weapon, the poker, and descended the staircase as noiselessly as possible. Mrs. Bunting came out on the landing.

The hour was about four, and the ultimate darkness of the night was passed. There was a faint shimmer of light in the hall, but the study doorway yawned impenetrably black. Everything was still, except the faint creaking of the stairs under Mr. Bunting’s tread, and the slight movements in the study. Then something snapped, the drawer was opened, and there was a rustle of papers. Then came an imprecation, and a match was struck, and the study was flooded with yellow light. Mr. Bunting was now in the hall, and through the crack of the door he could see the desk and the open drawer, and a candle burning on the desk. But the robber he could not see. He stood there in the hall undecided what to do, and Mrs. Bunting, her face white and intent, crept slowly downstairs after him. One thing kept up Mr. Bunting’s courage. The persuasion that this burglar was a resident in the village.

They heard the chink of money, and realised that the robber had found the housekeeping reserve of gold—two pounds ten in half–sovereigns altogether. At that sound Mr. Bunting was nerved to abrupt action.[1] Gripping the poker firmly, he rushed into the room, closely followed by Mrs. Bunting.

“Surrender!” cried Mr. Bunting fiercely, and then stopped, amazed. Apparently the room was perfectly empty.

Yet their conviction that they had that very moment heard somebody moving in the room had amounted to a certainty. For half a minute perhaps they stood gasping, then Mrs. Bunting went across the room and looked behind the screen, while Mr. Bunting, by a kindred impulse, peered under the desk. Then Mrs. Bunting turned back the window curtains and Mr. Bunting looked up the chimney, and probed it with the poker. Then Mrs. Bunting scrutinised the waste–paper basket, and Mr. Bunting opened the coal–scuttle. Then they came to a stop, and stood with eyes interrogating one another.

“I could have sworn—” said Mr. Bunting.

“The candle!” said Mr. Bunting. “Who lit the candle?”

“The drawer!” said Mrs. Bunting. “And the money’s gone!”

She went hastily to the doorway.

“Of all the extraordinary occurrences—”[2]

There was a violent sneeze in the passage. They rushed out, and as they did so the kitchen door slammed. “Bring the candle!” said Mr. Bunting, and led the way. They both heard the sound of bolts being hastily shot back.[3]

As he opened the kitchen door he saw through the scullery that the back door was just opening, and the faint light of early dawn displayed the dark masses of the garden beyond. He was certain that nothing went out of the door. It opened, stood open for a moment, and then closed with a slam. As it did so, the candle Mrs. Bunting was bringing from the study flickered and flared… It was a minute or more before they entered the kitchen.

The place was empty. They refastened the back door, examined the kitchen, pantry, and scullery thoroughly, and at last went down into the cellar. There was not a soul to be found in the house, search as they would.[4]

Daylight found the vicar and his wife, a quaintly costumed little couple, still marvelling about on their own ground floor by the unnecessary light of a guttering candle.

“Of all the extraordinary affairs,” began the vicar for the twentieth time.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Bunting, “there’s Susie coming down. Just wait here until she has gone into the kitchen, and then slip upstairs.”

Herbert George Wells

THE INVISIBLE MAN

CHAPTER VIII

IN TRANSIT1

The eighth chapter is exceedingly brief, and relates that Gibbins, the amateur naturalist of the district, while lying out on the spacious open downs without a soul within a couple of miles of him as he thought, and almost dozing, heard close to him the sound as of a man coughing, sneezing, and then swearing savagely to himself, and looking,2 beheld nothing. Yet the voice was indisputable. It continued to swear with that breadth and variety that distinguishes the swearing of a cultivated man. It grew to a climax, diminished again and died away in the distance, going, as it seemed to him, in the direction of Adderdean. It lifted to a spasmodic sneeze, and ended. Gibbins had heard nothing of the morning’s occurrences, but the phenomenon was so striking and disturbing, that his philosophical tranquillity vanished; he got up hastily and hurried down the steepness of the hill, towards the village, as fast as he could go.

CHAPTER IX

MR. THOMAS MARVEL

You must picture Mr. Thomas Marvel as a person of copious, flexible visage, a nose of cylindrical protrusion, a liquorish, ample, fluctuating mouth, and a beard of bristling eccentricity. His figure inclined to embonpoint,1 his short limbs accentuated this inclination. He wore a furry silk hat,2 and the frequent substitution of twine and shoelaces for buttons,3 apparent at critical points of his costume, marked a man essentially bachelor.

Mr. Thomas Marvel was sitting with his feet in a ditch by the roadside over the down towards Adderdean, about a mile and a half out of Iping. His feet, save for socks of irregular open–work,4 were bare, his big toes were broad, and pricked like the ears of a watchful dog. In a leisurely manner—he did everything in a leisurely manner—he was contemplating a pair of lace–up boots. They were the soundest boots he had come across for a long time, but too large for him, whereas those he had had were, in dry weather, a very comfortable fit, but too thin soled for damp. Mr. Thomas Marvel hated roomy boots, but then he hated damp. He had never properly thought out which he hated most, and it was a pleasant day, and there was nothing better to do. So he put the four boots in a graceful group on the turf, and looked at them. And seeing them there among the grass and springing agrimony, it suddenly occurred to him that both pairs were exceeding ugly to see. He was not at all startled by a voice behind him.

“They’re boots, anyhow,” said the Voice.

“They are—Charity Boots,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, with his head on one side regarding them distastefully; “and which is the ugliest pair in the whole blessed universe, I’m darned if I know!”

“H’m,” said the Voice.

“I’ve worn worse—in fact, I’ve worn none. But none so owdacious ugly—5 if you’ll allow the expression. I’ve been cadging boots—in particular—for days, because I was sick of them. They’re sound enough, of course. But a gentleman on tramp6 sees such a thundering7 lot of his boots. And if you’ll believe me, I’ve raised nothing in the whole blessed county, try as I would, but them. Look at ’em! And a good county for boots, too,8 in a general way. But it’s just my promiscuous luck. I’ve got my boots in this county ten years or more. And then they treat you like this.”

“It’s a beast of a county,” said the Voice, “and pigs for people.”

“Ain’t it?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel. “Lord! But them boots! It beats it.”9

He turned his head over his shoulder to the right, to look at the boots of his interlocutor, with a view to comparisons, and lo! where the boots of his interlocutor should have been were neither legs nor boots. He turned his head over his shoulder to the left, and there also were neither legs nor boots. He was irradiated by the dawn of a great amazement. “Where are yer?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel over his shoulder, and coming on all fours.10 He saw a stretch of empty down, with the wind swaying the remote green–pointed furze bushes.

“Am I drunk?” said Mr. Marvel. “Have I had visions? Was I talking to myself? What the—”

“Don’t be alarmed,” said a Voice.

“None of your ventriloquising me,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, rising sharply to his feet. “Where are yer? Alarmed, indeed!”

“Don’t be alarmed,” repeated the Voice.

“You’ll be alarmed in a minute, you silly fool,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel. “Where are yer? Lemme11 get my mark on yer…”

“Are yer buried?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel after an interval.

There was no answer. Mr. Thomas Marvel stood bootless and amazed, his jacket nearly thrown off.

“Peewit,”12 said a peewit very remote.

“Peewit, indeed!” said Mr. Thomas Marvel. “This ain’t no time for foolery.” The down was desolate east and west, north and south; the road, with its shallow ditches and white bordering stakes, ran smooth and empty north and south, and, save for that peewit, the blue sky was empty too. “So help me,”13 said Mr. Thomas Marvel, shuffling his coat on to his shoulders again. “It’s the drink. I might ha’ known.”

“It’s not the drink,” said the Voice. “You keep your nerves steady.”

“Ow!” said Mr. Marvel, and his face grew white amidst its patches. “It’s the drink,” his lips repeated noiselessly. He remained staring about him, rotating slowly backwards. “I could have swore I heard a voice,” he whispered.

“Of course you did.”

“It’s there again,” said Mr. Marvel, closing his eyes and clasping his hand on his brow with a tragic gesture. He was suddenly taken by the collar and shaken violently, and left more dazed than ever. “Don’t be a fool!” said the Voice.

“I’m—off—my blooming–—chump!”14 said Mr. Marvel.

“It’s no good. It’s fretting about them blarsted15 boots. I’m off my blessed, blooming chump. Or it’s spirits!”

“Neither one thing nor the other,” said the Voice. “Listen!”

“Chump!” said Mr. Marvel.

“One minute,” said the Voice penetratingly, tremulous with self–control.

“Well?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, with a strange feeling of having been dug in the chest by a finger.

“You think I’m just imagination—just imagination?”

“What else can you be?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Very well,” said the Voice in a tone of relief. “Then I’m going to throw flints at you till you think differently.”

“But where are yer?”

The Voice made no answer. Whizz came a flint,16 apparently out of the air, and missed Mr. Marvel’s shoulder by a hair’s breadth. Mr. Marvel, turning, saw a flint jerk up into the air, trace a complicated path, hang for a moment, and then fall at his feet with almost invisible rapidity. He was too amazed to dodge. Whizz it came, and ricocheted from a bare toe into the ditch. Mr. Thomas Marvel jumped a foot, and howled aloud. Then he started to run, tripped over an unseen obstacle, and came head over heels into a sitting position.

“Now,” said the Voice, as a third stone curved upward and hung in the air above the tramp, “am I imagination?”

Mr. Marvel, by way of reply, struggled to his feet, and was immediately rolled over again. He lay quiet for a moment.

“If you struggle any more,” said the Voice, “I shall throw the flint at your head.”

“It’s a fair do,”17 said Mr. Thomas Marvel, sitting up, taking his wounded toe in hand, and fixing his eye on the third missile. “I don’t understand it. Stones flinging themselves. Stones talking. Put yourself down. Rot away. I’m done.”18

The third flint fell.

“It’s very simple,” said the Voice. “I’m an invisible man.”

“Tell us something I don’t know,”19 said Mr. Marvel, gasping with pain. “Where you’ve hid—how you do it— I don’t know. I’m beat.”

“That’s all,” said the Voice. “I’m invisible. That’s what I want you to understand.”

“Any one could see that. There is no need for you to be so confounded impatient, mister. Now, then. Give us a notion. How are you hid?”

“I’m invisible. That’s the great point. And what I want you to understand is this—”

“But whereabouts?” interrupted Mr. Marvel.

“Here—six yards in front of you.”

“Oh, come! I ain’t blind. You’ll be telling me next you’re just thin air. I’m not one of your ignorant tramps—”

“Yes. I am—thin air. You’re looking through me.”

“What! Ain’t there any stuff to you? Vox et—20 what is it?—jabber. Is it that?”

“I am just a human being—solid, needing food and drink, needing covering, too… But I’m invisible. You see? Invisible. Simple idea. Invisible.”

“What, real like?”

“Yes, real.”

“Let’s have a hand of you,” said Marvel, “if you are real. It won’t be so darn out–of–the–way like, then—21

“Lord!” he said, “how you made me jump!—gripping me like that!”

He felt the hand that had closed round his wrist with his disengaged fingers, and his touch went timorously up the arm, patted a muscular chest, and explored a bearded face. Marvel’s face was astonishment.

“I’m dashed!” he said. “If this don’t beat cock–fighting! Most remarkable!—And there I can see a rabbit clean through you arf22 a mile away! Not a bit of you visible—–except—”

He scrutinised the apparently empty space keenly. “You ’aven’t been eatin’ bread and cheese?” he asked, holding the invisible arm.

“You are quite right. It’s not assimilated into the system.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Marvel. “Sort of ghostly, though.”

“Of course, all this isn’t half so wonderful as you think.”

“It’s quite wonderful enough for my modest wants,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel. “Howjer23 manage it? How the dooce is it done?”24

“It’s too long a story. And besides—”

“I tell you, the whole business fair25 beats me,” said Mr. Marvel.

“What I want to say at present is this: I need help. I have come to that. I came upon you suddenly. I was wandering, mad with rage, naked, impotent, I could have murdered… And I saw you—”

“Lord!” said Mr. Marvel.

“I came up behind you—hesitated—went on.”

Mr. Marvel’s expression was eloquent.

“Then stopped. ’Here,’ I said ’is an outcast like myself. This is the man for me.’ So I turned back and came to you. You. And—”

“Lord!” said Mr. Marvel. “But I’m all in a dizzy.26 May I ask: How is it?—and what you may be requiring in the way of help? Invisible!”

“I want you to help me get clothes and shelter, and then with other things. I’ve left them long enough. If you won’t—well! . .. But you will—must.”

“Look here,” said Mr. Marvel. “I’m too flabbergasted. Don’t knock me about any more. And leave me go. I must get steady a bit. And you’ve pretty near broken my toe. It’s all so unreasonable. Empty downs, empty sky. Nothing visible for miles except the bosom of Nature. And then comes a voice. A voice out of heaven! And stones. And a fist. Lord!”

“Pull yourself together,” said the Voice, “for you have to do the job I’ve chosen for you.”

Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round.

“I’ve chosen you,” said the Voice. “You are the only man, except some of those fools down there, who knows there is such a thing as an Invisible Man. You have to be my helper. Help me—and I will do great things for you. An Invisible Man is a man of power.” He stopped for a moment to sneeze violently.

“But if you betray me,” he said, “if you fail to do as I direct you—”

He paused and tapped Mr. Marvel’s shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel gave a yelp of terror at the touch. “I don’t want to betray you,” said Mr. Marvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers. “Don’t you go a–thinking that, whatever you do. All I want to do is to help you—just tell me what I got to do. (Lord!) Whatever you want done, that I’m most willing to do.”

CHAPTER X

MR. MARVEL’S VISIT TO IPING

After the first gusty panic had spent itself, Iping became argumentative. Scepticism suddenly reared its head—rather nervous scepticism, not at all assured of its back,1 but scepticism nevertheless. It is so much easier not to believe in an Invisible Man, and those who had actually seen him dissolve into air or felt the strength of his arm could be counted on the fingers of two hands. And of these witnesses, Mr. Wadgers was presently missing, having retired impregnably behind the bolts and bars of his own house, and Jaffers was lying stunned in the parlour of the “Coach and Horses.” Great and strange ideas transcending experience2 often have less effect upon men and women than smaller, more tangible considerations. Iping was gay with bunting, and everybody was in gala dress. Whit Monday had been looked forward to for a month or more. By the afternoon even those who believed in the Unseen were beginning to resume their little amusements in a tentative fashion, on the supposition that he had quite gone away, and with the sceptics he was already a jest. But people—sceptics and believers alike—were remarkably sociable all that day.

Haysman’s meadow was gay with a tent, in which Mrs. Bunting and other ladies were preparing tea, while without the Sunday–school3 children ran races and played games under the noisy guidance of the curate and the Misses Cuss and Sackbut. No doubt there was a slight uneasiness in the air, but people for the most part had the sense to conceal whatever imaginative qualms they experienced. On the village green4 an inclined string, down which, clinging the while to a pulley–swung handle,5 one could be hurled violently against a sack at the other end, came in for considerable favour6 among the adolescent, as also did the swings and the cocoanut–shies. There was also promenading, and the steam organ attached to a small roundabout filled the air with a pungent flavour of oil and with equally pungent music. Members of the club, who had attended church in the morning, were splendid in badges of pink and green, and some of the gayer minded had also adorned their bowler hats with brilliant coloured favours of ribbon.7 Old Fletcher, whose conceptions of holiday–making were severe, was visible through the jasmine about his window or through the open door (whichever way you chose to look) poised delicately on a plank supported on two chairs, and whitewashing the ceiling of his front room.

About four o’clock a stranger entered the village from the direction of the downs. He was a short, stout person in an extraordinarily shabby top hat, and he appeared to be very much out of breath. His cheeks were alternately limp and tightly puffed. His mottled face was apprehensive, and he moved with a sort of reluctant alacrity. He turned the corner by the church and directed his way to the “Coach and Horses.” Among others, old Fletcher remembers seeing him, and indeed the old gentleman was so struck by his peculiar agitation that he inadvertently allowed a quantity of whitewash to run down the brush into the sleeve of his coat while regarding him.

This stranger, to the perceptions of the proprietor of the cocoanut–shy, appeared to be talking to himself, and Mr. Huxter remarked the same thing. He stopped at the foot of the “Coach and Horses” steps, and, according to Mr. Huxter, appeared to undergo a severe internal struggle before he could induce himself to enter the house. Finally he marched up the steps, and was seen by Mr. Huxter to turn to the left and open the door of the parlour. Mr. Huxter heard voices from within the room and from the bar apprising the man of his error.

“That room’s private!” said Hall, and the stranger shut the door clumsily and went into the bar.

In the course of a few minutes he reappeared, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, with an air of quiet satisfaction that somehow impressed Mr. Huxter as assumed. He stood looking about him for some moments, and then Mr. Huxter saw him walk in an oddly furtive manner towards the gates of the yard, upon which the parlour window opened. The stranger, after some hesitation, leant against one of the gate–posts, produced a short clay pipe, and prepared to fill it. His fingers trembled while doing so. He lit it clumsily, and, folding his arms, began to smoke in a languid attitude, an attitude which his occasional quick glances up the yard altogether belied.

All this Mr. Huxter saw over the canisters of the tobacco window, and the singularity of the man’s behaviour prompted him to maintain his observation.

Presently the stranger stood up abruptly and put his pipe in his pocket. Then he vanished into the yard. Forthwith Mr. Huxter, conceiving he was witness of some petty larceny, leapt round his counter and ran out into the road to intercept the thief. As he did so, Mr. Marvel reappeared, his hat askew, a big bundle in a blue tablecloth in one hand, and three books tied together—as it proved afterwards with the vicar’s braces—in the other. Directly he saw Huxter he gave a sort of gasp, and turning sharply to the left, began to run. “Stop thief!”8 cried Huxter, and set off after him.

Mr. Huxter’s sensations were vivid but brief. He saw the man just before him, and sprinting briskly for the church corner and the down road. He saw the village flags and festivities beyond, and only a face or two turned toward him. He bawled “Stop thief” again, and set off gallantly. He had hardly gone ten strides before his shin was caught in some mysterious fashion, and he was no longer running but flying with incredible velocity through the air. He saw the ground suddenly close to his head. The world seemed to splash into a million whirling specks of light, and “subsequent proceedings interested him no more.”9

Herbert George Wells

THE INVISIBLE MAN

CHAPTER XIII

MR. MARVEL DISCUSSES HIS RESIGNATION

When the dusk was gathering, and Iping was just beginning to peep timorously forth again upon the shattered wreckage of its Bank Holiday,1 a short, thickset man in a shabby silk hat was marching painfully through the twilight behind the beechwoods on the road to Bramblehurst. He carried three books, bound together by some sort of ornamental elastic ligature, and a bundle wrapped in a blue tablecloth. His rubicund face expressed consternation and fatigue, he appeared to be in a spasmodic sort of hurry. He was accompanied by a Voice other than his own, and ever and again he winced under the touch of unseen hands.

“Jf you give me the slip2 again,” said the Voice; “if you attempt to give me the slip again—”

“Lord!” said Mr. Marvel. “That shoulder’s a mass of bruises as it is.”

“On my honour,” said the Voice, “I will kill you.”

“I didn’t try to give you the slip,” said Marvel, in a voice that was not far remote from tears. “I swear I didn’t. I didn’t know the blessed turning, that was all! How the devil was I to know the blessed turning? As it is, I’ve been knocked about—”

“You’ll get knocked about a great deal more if you don’t mind,”3 said the Voice, and Mr. Marvel abruptly became silent. He blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were eloquent of despair.

“It’s bad enough to let these floundering yokels explode my little secret, without your cutting off with my books. It’s lucky for some of them they cut and ran when they did! Here am I… No one knew I was invisible! And now what am I to do?”

“What am I to do?” asked Marvel, sotto voce.

“It’s all about.4 It will be in the papers! Everybody will be looking for me. Every one on their guard—”

The Voice broke off into vivid curses and ceased. The despair of Mr. Marvel’s face deepened, and his pace slackened.

“Go on,” said the Voice.

Mr. Marvel’s face assumed a grayish tint between the ruddier patches.

“Don’t drop those books, stupid!” said the Voice sharply.

“The fact is,” said the Voice, “I shall have to make use of you… You’re a poor tool, but I must.”

“I’m a miserable tool,” said Marvel.

“You are,” said the Voice.

“I’m the worst possible tool you could have,” said Marvel.

“I’m not strong,” he said, after a discouraging silence.

“I’m not over strong,” he repeated.

"No?"

“And my heart’s weak. That little business—I pulled it through, of course. But, bless you! I could have dropped.”

“Well?”

“I haven’t the nerve and strength for the sort of thing you want—”

“I’ll stimulate you.”

“I wish you wouldn’t. I wouldn’t like to mess up your plans, you know. But I might. Out of sheer funk and misery—”

“You’d better not,” said the Voice, with quiet emphasis.

“I wish I was dead,” said Marvel.

“It ain’t justice,” he said. “You must admit… It seems to me I’ve a perfect right—”

“Get on,”5 said the Voice.

Mr. Marvel mended his pace, and for a time they went in silence again.

“It’s devilish hard,” said Mr. Marvel.

This was quite ineffectual. He tried another tack.

“What do I make by it?”6 he began, again in a tone of unendurable wrong.

“Oh! shut up!” said the Voice, with sudden amazing vigour. “I’ll see to you all right. You do what you’re told. You’ll do it all right. You’re a fool and all that, but you’ll do—”

“I tell you, sir, I’m not the man for it. Respectfully—but it is so—”

“If you don’t shut up I shall twist your wrist again,” said the Invisible Man. “I want to think.”

Presently two oblongs of yellow light appeared through the trees, and the square tower of a church loomed through the gloaming. “I shall keep my hand on your shoulder,” said the Voice, “all through this village. Go straight through and try no foolery. It will be the worse for you if you do.”

“I know that,” sighed Mr. Marvel, “I know all that.”

The unhappy–looking figure in the obsolete silk hat passed up the street of the little village with his burdens, and vanished into the gathering darkness beyond the lights of the windows.

CHAPTER XIV

AT PORT STOWE

Ten o’clock the next morning found Mr. Marvel, unshaven, dirty and travel–stained, sitting with his hands deep in his pockets, looking very weary, nervous, and uncomfortable, and inflating his cheeks at frequent intervals, on the bench outside a little inn on the outskirts of Port Stowe. Beside him were the books, but now they were tied with string. The bundle had been abandoned in the pinewoods beyond Bramblehurst, in accordance with a change in the plans of the Invisible Man. Mr. Marvel sat on the bench, and although no one took the slightest notice of him, his agitation remained at fever heat. His hands would go ever and again to his various pockets with a curious nervous fumbling.

When he had been sitting for the best part of an hour, however, an elderly mariner, carrying a newspaper, came out of the inn and sat down beside him.

“Pleasant day,” said the mariner.

Mr. Marvel glanced about him with something very like terror. “Very,” he said.

“Just seasonable weather for the time of year,” said the mariner, taking no denial.

“Quite,” said Mr. Marvel.

The mariner produced a toothpick, and (saving his regard)1 was engrossed thereby for some minutes. His eyes meanwhile were at liberty to examine Mr. Marvel’s dusty figure and the books beside him. As he had approached Mr. Marvel he had heard a sound like the dropping of coins into a pocket. He was struck by the contrast of Mr. Marvel’s appearance with this suggestion of opulence. Thence his mind wandered back again to a topic that had taken a curiously firm hold of his imagination.

“Books?” he said suddenly, noisily finishing with the toothpick.

Mr. Marvel started and looked at them. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes, they’re books.”

“There’s some ex–traordinary things in books,” said the mariner.

“I believe you,” said Mr. Marvel.

“And some extra–ordinary things out of ’em,” said the mariner.

“True, likewise,” said Mr. Marvel. He eyed his interlocutor, and then glanced about him.

“There’s some extra–ordinary things in newspapers, for example,” said the mariner.

“There are.”

“In this newspaper,” said the mariner.

“Ah!” said Mr. Marvel.

“There’s a story,” said the mariner, fixing Mr. Marvel with an eye that was firm and deliberate; “there’s a story about an Invisible Man, for instance.”

Mr. Marvel pulled his mouth askew and scratched his cheek and felt his ears glowing. “What will they be writing next?” he asked faintly. “Ostria2 or America?”

“Neither,” said the mariner. “Here.”

“Lord!” said Mr. Marvel, starting.

“When I say here” said the mariner to Mr. Marvel’s intense relief, “I don’t, of course, mean here in this place, I mean hereabouts.”

“An Invisible Man!” said Mr. Marvel. “And what’s he been up to?”3

“Everything,” said the mariner controlling Marvel with his eye, and then amplifying, “every—blessed— thing.”

“I ain’t seen a paper these four days,” said Marvel.

“Iping’s the place he started at,” said the mariner.

“ln–deed!” said Mr. Marvel.

“He started there. And where he came from nobody don’t seem to know. Here it is: ’Pe–culiar Story from Iping.’ And it says in this paper that the evidence is extraordinary strong, extraordinary.”

“Lord!” said Mr. Marvel.

“But then it’s a extra–ordinary story. There is a clergyman and a medical gent witnesses—saw ’im all right and proper—or leastways, didn’t see him. He was staying, it says, at the ’Coach an’ Horses,’ and no one don’t seem to have been aware of his misfortune, it says, aware of his misfortune, until in an Alteration4 in the inn, it says, his bandages on his head was torn off. It was then ob–served that his head was invisible. Attempts were At Once made to secure him, but, casting off his garments, it says, he succeeded in escaping, but not until after a desperate struggle, In Which he had inflicted serious injuries, it says, on our worthy and able constable, Mr. J. A. Jaffers. Pretty straight story, eh? Names and everything.”

“Lord!” said Mr. Marvel, looking nervously about him, trying to count the money in his pockets by his unaided sense of touch, and full of a strange and novel idea. “It sounds most astonishing.”

“Don’t it? Extra–ordinary, I call it. Never heard tell of Invisible Men before, I haven’t, but nowadays one hears such a lot of extra–ordinary things—that—”

“That all he did?” asked Marvel, trying to seem at his ease.

“It’s enough, ain’t it?” said the mariner.

“Didn’t go Back by any chance?” asked Marvel. “Just escaped, and that’s all, eh?”

“All!” said the mariner. “Why!—ain’t it enough?”

“Quite enough,” said Marvel.

“I should think it was enough,” said the mariner. “I should think it was enough.”

“He didn’t have any pals—it don’t say he had any pals, does it?” asked Mr. Marvel, anxious.

“Ain’t one of a sort enough for you?” asked the mariner. “No, thank heaven, as one might say, he didn’t.”

He nodded his head slowly. “It makes me regular uncomfortable, the bare thought of that chap running about the country!— He is at present at Large, and from certain evidence, it is supposed that he has—taken—took, I suppose they mean—the road to Port Stowe. You see we’re right in it! None of your American wonders this time. And just think of the things he might do! Where’d you be if he took a drop over and above,5 and had a fancy to go for6 you? Suppose he wants to rob—who can prevent him? He can trespass, he can burgle, he can walk through a cordon of policemen as easy as me or you could give the slip to a blind man! Easier! For these here blind chaps hear uncommon sharp, I’m told. And wherever there was liquor he fancied—”

“He’s got a tremenjous7 advantage, certainly,” said Mr. Marvel. “And—well…”

“You’re right,” said the mariner; “he has.”

All this time Mr. Marvel had been glancing about him intently, listening for faint footfalls, trying to detect imperceptible movements. He seemed on the point of some great resolution; he coughed behind his hand.

He looked about him again—listened—bent towards the mariner, and lowered his voice.

“The fact of it is, I happen—to know just a thing or two about this Invisible Man. From private sources.”

“Oh!” said the mariner. “You?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Marvel—“me.”

“Indeed!” said the mariner. “And may I ask—?”

“You’ll be astonished,” said Mr. Marvel, behind his hand. “It’s tremenjous.”

“Indeed!” said the mariner.

“The fact is,” began Mr. Marvel eagerly, in a confidential undertone. Suddenly his expression changed marvellously. “Ow!” he said. He rose stiffly in his seat; his face was eloquent of physical suffering. “Wow!” he said.

“What’s up?” said the mariner, concerned.

“Toothache,” said Mr. Marvel, and put his hand to his ear. He caught hold of his books. “I must be getting on, I think,” he said. He edged in a curious way along the seat away from his interlocutor.

“But you was just a–going to tell me about this here Invisible Man,” protested the mariner.

Mr. Marvel seemed to consult with himself.

“Hoax,”8 said a Voice.

“It’s a hoax,” said Mr. Marvel.

“But it’s in the paper,” said the mariner.

“Hoax all the same,” said Marvel. “I know the chap that started the lie. There ain’t no Invisible Man whatsoever… Blimey.”

“But how ’bout this paper? D’you mean to say—?”

“Not a word of it,” said Mr. Marvel stoutly.

The mariner stared, paper in hand. Mr. Marvel jerkily faced about. “Wait a bit,” said the mariner, rising and speaking slowly. “D’you mean to say—?”

“I do,” said Mr. Marvel.

“Then why did you let me go on and tell you all this blarsted stuff, then? What d’yer mean by letting a man make a fool of himself like that for, eh?”

Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks. The mariner was suddenly very red indeed, he clenched his hands. “I been talking here this ten minutes,” he said; “and you, you little pot–bellied, leathery–faced son of an old boot,9 couldn’t have the elementary manners—”

“Don’t you come bandying words with me,” said Mr. Marvel.

“Bandying words! I’ve a jolly good mind—”

“Come up,” said a Voice, and Mr. Marvel was suddenly whirled about and started marching off in a curious, spasmodic manner. “You’d better move on,” said the mariner. “Who’s moving on?” said Mr. Marvel. He was receding obliquely with a curious, hurrying gait, with occasional violent jerks forward. Some way along the road he began a muttered monologue, protests and recriminations.

“Silly devil,” said the mariner, legs wide apart, arms akimbo, watching the receding figure. “I’ll show you, you silly fool, hoaxing me! It’s here in the paper!”

Mr. Marvel retorted incoherently, and receding was hidden by a bend in the road; but the mariner still stood magnificent in the midst of the way, until the approach of a butcher’s cart dislodged him. Then he turned himself towards Port Stowe. “Full of extra–ordinary fools,” he said softly to himself. “Just to take me down a bit—that was his silly game… ’It’s in the paper!”

And there was another extraordinary thing he was presently to hear that had happened quite close to him. And that was a vision of a “fist full of money” (no less) travelling without visible agency, along by the wall at the corner of St. Michael’s Lane. A brother mariner had seen this wonderful sight that very morning. He had snatched the money forthwith, and had been knocked headlong, and when he had got to his feet the butterfly money10 had vanished. Our mariner was in the mood to believe anything, he declared, but that was a bit too stiff. Afterwards, however, he began to think things over.

The story of the flying money was true. And all about that neighbourhood, even from the august London and County Banking Company, from the tills of shops and inns—doors standing that sunny weather entirely open —money had been quietly and dexterously making off that day in handfuls and rouleaux, floating quietly along by walls and shady places, dodging quickly from the approaching eyes of men. And it had, though no man had traced it, invariably ended its mysterious flight in the pocket of that agitated gentleman in the obsolete silk hat, sitting outside the little inn on the outskirts of Port Stowe.

It was ten days after—and indeed only when the Burdock story was already old—that the mariner collated these facts and began to understand how near he had been to the wonderful Invisible Man.

CHAPTER XV

THE MAN WHO WAS RUNNING

In the early evening time Dr. Kemp was sitting in his study in the belvedere on the hill overlooking Burdock. It was a pleasant little room, with three windows—north, west, and south—and bookshelves crowded with books and scientifiic publications, and a broad writing–table, and, under the north window, a microscope, glass slips, minute instruments, some cultures, and scattered bottles of reagents. Dr. Kemp’s solar lamp was lit, albeit the sky was still bright with the sunset light, and his blinds were up because there was no offence of peering outsiders to require them pulled down. Dr. Kemp was a tall and slender young man, with flaxen hair and a moustache almost white, and the work he was upon would earn him, he hoped, the fellowship of the Royal Society,1 so highly did he think of it.

And his eye, presently wandering from his work, caught the sunset blazing at the back of the hill that is over against his own. For a minute, perhaps, he sat, pen in mouth, admiring the rich golden colour above the crest, and then his attention was attracted by the little figure of a man, inky black, running over the hill brow towards him. He was a shortish little fellow, and he wore a high hat, and he was running so fast that his legs verily twinkled.

“Another of those asses,” said Dr. Kemp. “Like that ass who ran into me this morning round a corner, with his ‘ ’Visible Man a–coming, sir!’ I can’t imagine what possesses people.2 One might think we were in the thirteenth century.”

He got up, went to the window, and stared at the dusky hillside and the dark little figure tearing down it. “He seems in a confounded hurry,” said Dr. Kemp, “but he doesn’t seem to be getting on. If his pockets were full of lead, he couldn’t run heavier.

“Spurted,3 sir!” said Dr. Kemp.

In another moment the higher of the villas that had clambered up the hill from Burdock had occulted4 the running figure. He was visible again for a moment, and again and then again, three times between the three detached houses that came next, and then the terrace hid him.

“Asses!” said Dr. Kemp, swinging round on his heel and walking back to his writing–table.

But those who saw the fugitive nearer, and perceived the abject terror on his perspiring face, being themselves in the open roadway, did not share in the doctor’s contempt. By the man pounded,5 and as he ran he chinked like a well–filled purse that is tossed to and fro. He looked neither to the right nor left, but his dilated eyes stared straight down hill to where the lamps were being lit and the people were crowded in the street. And his ill–shaped mouth fell apart, and a glairy foam6 lay on his lips, and his breath came hoarse and noisy. All he passed stopped and began staring up the road and down, and interrogating one another with an inkling of discomfort for the reason of his haste.

And then presently, far up the hill, a dog playing in the road yelped and ran under a gate, and as they still wondered, something—a wind—a pad, pad, pad, a sound like a panting breathing, rushed by.

People screamed. People sprang off the pavement. It passed in shouts, it passed by instinct down the hill. They were shouting in the street before Marvel was half–way there. They were bolting into houses and slamming the doors behind them, with the news. He heard it, and made one last desperate spurt. Fear came striding by, rushed ahead of him, and in a moment had seized the town.

“The Invisible Man is coming! The Invisible Man!”

CHAPTER XVI

IN THE "JOLLY CRICKETERS"

The “Jolly Cricketers” is just at the bottom of the hill, where the tram–lines begin. The barman leant his fat red arms on the counter and talked of horses with an anaemic cabman, while a black–bearded man in gray snapped up biscuit and cheese, drank Burton,1 and conversed in American2 with a policeman off duty.

“What’s the shouting about?” said the anaemic cabman, going off at a tangent, trying to see up the hill over the dirty yellow blind in the low window of the inn. Somebody ran by outside.

“Fire, perhaps,” said the barman.

Footsteps approached, running heavily, the door was pushed open violently, and Marvel, weeping and dishevelled, his hat gone, the neck of his coat torn open, rushed in, made a convulsive turn, and attempted to shut the door. It was held half open by a strap.

“Coming!” he bawled, his voice shrieking with terror. “He’s coming. The ’Nvisible Man! After me. For Gawd’s sake. ’Elp! ’Elp! ’Elp!”

“Shut the doors,” said the policeman. “Who’s coming? What’s the row?” He went to the door, released the strap, and it slammed. The American closed the other door.

“Lemme go inside,” said Marvel, staggering and weeping, but still clutching the books. “Lemme go inside. Lock me in—somewhere. I tell you he’s after me. I give him the slip. He said he’d kill me, and he will.”

“You’re safe,” said the man with the black beard. “The door’s shut. What’s it all about?”

“Lemme go inside,” said Marvel, and shrieked aloud as a blow suddenly made the fastened door shiver, and was followed by a hurried rapping and a shouting outside.

“Hullo,” cried the policeman, “who’s there?”

Mr. Marvel began to make frantic dives at panels that looked like doors. “He’ll kill me—he’s got a knife or something. For Gawd’s sake—!”

“Here you are,” said the barman. “Come in here.” And he held up the flap of the bar.

Mr. Marvel rushed behind the bar as the. summons outside was repeated. “Don’t open the door,” he screamed. “Please don’t open the door. Where shall I hide?”

“This, this Invisible Man, then?” asked the man with the black beard with one hand behind him. “I guess it’s about time we saw him.”

The window of the inn was suddenly smashed in, and there was a screaming and running to and fro in the street. The policeman had been standing on the settee staring out, craning to see who was at the door. He got down with raised eyebrows. “It’s that,” he said. The barman stood in front of the bar–parlour door, which was now locked on Mr. Marvel, stared at the smashed window, and came round to the two other men.

Everything was suddenly quiet. “I wish I had my truncheon,” said the policeman, going irresolutely to the door. “Once we open, in he comes. There’s no stopping him.”

“Don’t you be in too much hurry3 about that door,” said the anaemic cabman anxiously.

“Draw the bolts,” said the man with the black beard, “and if he comes…” He showed a revolver in his hand.

“That won’t do,” said the policeman, “that’s murder.”

“I know what country I’m in,” said the man with the beard. “I’m going to let off at his legs. Draw the bolts.”

“Not with that thing going off behind me,” said the barman, craning over the blind.

“Very well,” said the man with the black beard, and stooping down, revolver ready, drew them himself. Barman, cabman, and policeman faced about.

“Come in,” said the bearded man in an undertone, standing back and facing the unbolted doors with his pistol behind him. No one came in, the door remained closed. Five minutes afterwards, when a second cabman pushed his head in cautiously, they were still waiting, and an anxious face peered out of the bar–parlour and supplied information.

“Are all the doors of the house shut?” asked Marvel. “He’s going round—prowling round. He’s as artful as the devil.”

“Good Lord!” said the burly barman. “There’s the back! Just watch them doors! I say—!” He looked about him helplessly. The bar–parlour door slammed and they heard the key turn. “There’s the yard door and the private door. The yard door—”

He rushed out of the bar.

In a minute he reappeared with a carving knife in his hand. “The yard door was open,” he said, and his fat underlip dropped.

“He may be in the house now,” said the first cabman.

“He’s not in the kitchen,” said the barman. “There’s two women there, and I’ve stabbed every inch of it with this little beef slicer. And they don’t think he’s come in. They have noticed—”

“Have you fastened it?” asked the first cabman.

“I’m out o’ frocks,”4 said the barman.

The man with the beard replaced his revolver. And even as he did so the flap of the bar was shut down and the bolt clicked, and then with a tremendous thud the catch of the door snapped and the bar–parlour door burst open. They heard Marvel squeal like a caught leveret, and forthwith they were clambering over the bar to his rescue. The bearded man’s revolver cracked, and the looking–glass at the back of the parlour starred5 and came smashing and tinkling down.

As the barman entered the room, he saw Marvel curiously crumpled up and struggling against the door that led to the yard and kitchen. The door flew open while the barman hesitated, and Marvel was lugged into the kitchen. There was a scream and a clatter of pans. Marvel, head down, and lugging back obstinately, was forced to the kitchen door, and the bolts were drawn.

The policeman, who had been trying to pass the barman, rushed in, followed by one of the cabmen, gripped the wrist of the invisible hand that collared Marvel, was hit in the face and went reeling back. The door opened, and Marvel made a frantic effort to obtain a lodgment behind it. Then the cabman clutched something. “I got him,” said the cabman. The barman’s red hands came clawing at the unseen. “Here he is!” said the barman. Mr. Marvel, released, suddenly dropped to the ground, and made an attempt to crawl behind the legs of the fighting men. The struggle blundered round the edge of the door. The voice of the Invisible Man was heard for the first time, yelling out sharply as the policeman trod on his foot. Then he cried out passionately, and his fists flew round like flails. The cabman suddenly whooped and doubled up, kicked under the diaphragm. The doors into the bar–parlour from the kitchen slammed and covered Mr. Marvel’s retreat. The men in the kitchen found themselves clutching at and struggling with empty air.

“Where’s he gone?” cried the man with the beard. “Out?”

“This way,” said the policeman, stepping into the yard and stopping.

A piece of tile whizzed by his head, and smashed among the crockery on the kitchen table.

“I’ll show him,” shouted the man with the black beard, and suddenly a steel barrel shone over the policeman’s shoulder, and five bullets had followed one another into the twilight whence the missile had come. As he fired, the man with the beard moved his hand in a horizontal curve, so that his shots radiated out into the narrow yard like spokes from a wheel.

A silence followed. “Five cartridges,” said the man with the black beard. “That’s best of all. Four aces and the joker.6 Get a lantern, some one, and come and feel about for his body.”

CHAPTER XVII

DR. KEMP’S VISITOR

Dr. Kemp had continued writing in his study until the shots aroused him. Crack, crack, crack, they came one after the other.

“Hullo!” said Dr. Kemp, putting his pen into his mouth again and listening. “Who’s letting off revolvers in Burdock? What are the asses at now?”[1]

He went to the south window, threw it up,[2] and leaning out stared down on the network of windows, beaded gas–lamps and shops with black interstices of roof and yard that made up the town at night. “Looks like a crowd down the hill,” he said, “by ’The Cricketers,’ ” and remained watching. Thence his eyes wandered over the town to far away where the ships’ lights shone and the pier glowed—a little illuminated, faceted pavilion like a gem of yellow light. The moon in its first quarter hung over the westward hill, and the stars were clear and almost tropically bright.

After five minutes, during which his mind had travelled into a remote speculation of social conditions of the future, and lost itself at last over the time dimension, Dr. Kemp roused himself with a sigh, pulled down the window again, and returned to his writing–desk.

It must have been about an hour after this that the front door–bell rang. He had been writing slackly, and with intervals of abstraction, since the shots. He sat listening. He heard the servant answer the door, and waited for her feet on the staircase, but she did not come. “Wonder what that was?” said Dr. Kemp.

He tried to resume his work, failed, got up, went downstairs from his study to the landing, rang, and called over the balustrade to the housemaid, as she appeared in the hall below. “Was that a letter?” he asked.

“Only a runaway ring,[3] sir,” she answered.

“I’m restless to–night,” he said to himself. He went back to his study, and this time attacked his work resolutely.

In a little while he was hard at work again, and the only sounds in the room were the ticking of the clock and the subdued shrillness of his quill, hurrying in the very centre of the circle of light his lampshade threw on his table.

It was two o’clock before Dr. Kemp had finished his work for the night. He rose, yawned, and went upstairs to bed. He had already removed his coat and vest, when he noticed that he was thirsty. He took a candle and went down to the dining–room in search of a siphon and whisky.

Dr. Kemp’s scientific pursuits had made him a very observant man, and as he re–crossed the hall he noticed a dark spot on the linoleum near the mat at the foot of the stairs. He went on upstairs, and then it suddenly occurred to him to ask himself what the spot on the linoleum might be. Apparently some subconscious element was at work. At any rate, he turned with his burden, went back to the hall, put down the siphon and whisky, and, bending down, touched the spot. Without any great surprise, he found it had the stickiness and colour of drying blood.

He took up his burden again, and returned upstairs looking about him and trying to account for the blood spot. On the landing he saw something, and stopped astonished. The door–handle of his room was blood–stained.

He looked at his own hand. It was quite clean, and then he remembered that the door of his room had been open when he came down from his study, and that consequently he had not touched the handle at all. He went straight into his own room, his face quite calm—perhaps a trifle more resolute than usual. His glance, wandering inquisitively, fell on the bed. On the counterpane was a mess of blood, and the sheet had been torn. He had not noticed this when he had entered the room before, because then he had walked straight to the dressing–table. On the farther side the bed–clothes were depressed as if some one had recently been sitting there.

Then he had an odd impression that he had heard a low voice say, “Good heavens!—Kemp!” But Dr. Kemp was no believer in voices.

He stood staring at the tumbled sheets. Was that really a voice? He looked about again, but noticed nothing further than the disordered and blood–stained bed. Then he distinctly heard a movement across the room, near the washhand–stand. All men, however highly educated, retain some superstitious inklings. The feeling that is called "eerie" came upon him. He closed the door of the room, came forward to the dressing–table, and put down his burden. Suddenly, with a start, he perceived a coiled and blood–stained bandage of linen rag hanging in midair, between him and the washhand–stand.

He stared at this in amazement, It was an empty bandage—a bandage properly tied, but quite empty. He would have advanced to grasp it, but a touch arrested him and a voice speaking quite close to him.

“Kemp!” said the Voice.

“Eh?” said Kemp, with his mouth open.

“Keep your nerve,” said the Voice. “I’m an Invisible Man.”

Kemp made no answer for a space, simply stared at the bandage. “Invisible Man?” he said.

“I am an Invisible Man,” repeated the Voice.

The story he had been active to ridicule[4] only that morning rushed through Kemp’s brain. He does not appear to have been either very much frightened or very greatly surprised at the moment. Realisation came later.

“I thought it was all a lie,” he said. The thought uppermost in his mind was the reiterated arguments of the morning. “Have you a bandage on?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the Invisible Man.

“Oh!” said Kemp, and then roused himself. “I say!” he said. “But this is nonsense. It’s some trick.” He stepped forward suddenly and his hand, extended towards the bandage, met invisible fingers.

He recoiled at the touch, and his colour changed.

“Keep steady, Kemp, for God’s sake! I want help badly. Stop!”

The hand gripped his arm. He struck at it. “Kemp!” cried the Voice. “Kemp, keep steady!” and the grip tightened.

A frantic desire to free himself took possession of Kemp. The hand of the bandaged arm gripped his shoulder, and he was suddenly tripped and flung backwards upon the bed. He opened his mouth to shout, and the corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had him down grimly, but his arms were free, and he struck and tried to kick savagely.

“Listen to reason, will you?” said the Invisible Man, sticking to him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. “By heaven, you’ll madden me in a minute!

“Lie still, you fool!” bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp’s ear.

Kemp struggled for another moment, and then lay still.

“If you shout, I’ll smash your face,” said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth. “I’m an Invisible Man. It is no foolishness and no magic. I am really an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don’t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic I must. Don’t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College.”[5]

“Let me get up,” said Kemp. “I’ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute.”

He sat up and felt his neck.

“I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man—a man you have known—made invisible.”

“Griffin?” said Kemp.

“Griffin,” answered the Voice. “A younger student than you were, almost an albino,[7] six feet high, and broad—with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry.”

“I’m confused,” said Kemp. “My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?”

“I am Griffin.”

Kemp thought. “It’s horrible,” he said. “But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?”

“It’s no devilry. It’s a process, sane and intelligible enough—”

“It’s horrible!” said Kemp. “How on earth—?”

“It’s horrible enough. But I’m wounded and in pain, and tired… Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here.”

Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged along the floor and come to rest near the bed. It creaked, and the seat was depressed a quarter of an inch or so. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. “This beats ghosts,” he said, and laughed stupidly.

“That’s better. Thank heaven, you’re getting sensible!”

“Or silly,” said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes.

“Give me some whisky. I’m near dead.”

“I didn’t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you? There! All right. Whisky… Here. Where shall I give it you?”

The chair creaked, and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let it go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest poised twenty inches above the front edge of the chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity.

“This is—this must be—hypnotism. You must have suggested you are invisible.”

“Nonsense!” said the Voice.

“It’s frantic!”

“Listen to me.”

“I demonstrated conclusively this morning,” began Kemp, “that invisibility—”

“Never mind what you’ve demonstrated! I’m starving,” said the Voice, “and the night is chilly to a man without clothes.”

“Food?” said Kemp.

The tumbler of whisky tilted itself. “Yes,” said the Invisible Man, rapping it down. “Have you got a dressing–gown?”

Kemp made some exclamation in an undertone. He walked to a wardrobe, and produced a robe of dingy scarlet. “This do?”[7] he asked. It was taken from him. It hung limp for a moment in mid–air, fluttered weirdly, stood full and decorous buttoning itself, and sat down in his chair.

“Drawers, socks, slippers would be a comfort,” said the Unseen curtly. “And food.”

“Anything. But this is the insanest thing I was ever in, in my life!”

He turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs to ransack his larder. He came back with some cold cutlets and bread, pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest.

“Never mind knives,” said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid–air with a sound of gnawing.

“I always like to get something about me[8] before I eat,” said the Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily. “Queer fancy.”

“I suppose that wrist is all right?” said Kemp.

“Trust me,” said the Invisible Man.

“Of all the strange and wonderful—”

“Exactly. But it’s odd I should blunder into your house to get my bandaging. My first stroke of luck! Anyhow, I meant to sleep in this house to–night. You must stand that! It’s a filthy nuisance, my blood showing, isn’t it? Quite a clot over there. Gets visible as it coagulates, I see. It’s only the living tissue I’ve changed, and only for as long as I’m alive… I’ve been in the house three hours.”

“But how’s it done ?” began Kemp, in a tone of exasperation. “Confound it! The whole business—it’s unreasonable from beginning to end.”

“Quite reasonable,” said the Invisible Man; "perfectly reasonable.”

He reached over and secured the whisky bottle. Kemp stared at the devouring dressing–gown. A ray of candlelight penetrating a torn patch in the right shoulder made a triangle of light under the left ribs.

“What were the shots?” he asked. “How did the shooting begin?”

“There was a fool of a man—a sort of confederate of mine, curse him!—who tried to steal my money. Has done so.”

“Is he invisible, too?”

“No.”

“Well?”

“Can’t I have some more to eat before I tell all that? I’m hungry—in pain. And you want me to tell stories!”

Kemp got up. “You didn’t do any shooting?” he asked.

“Not me,” said his visitor. “Some fool I’d never seen fired at random. A lot of them got scared. They all got scared at me. Curse them! I say—I want more to eat than this, Kemp.”

“I’ll see what there is more to eat downstairs,” said Kemp. “Not much, I’m afraid.”

After he had done eating—and he made a heavy meal —the Invisible Man demanded a cigar. He bit the end savagely, before Kemp could find a knife, and cursed when the outer leaf loosened.

It was strange to see him smoking: his mouth and throat, pharynx and nares,[9] became visible as a sort of whirling smoke cast.

“This blessed gift of smoking,” he said, and puffed vigorously. “I’m lucky to have fallen upon you, Kemp. You must help me. Fancy tumbling on you just now! I’m in a devilish scrape—[10] I’ve been mad, I think. The things I have been through![11] But we will do things yet, let me tell you.”

He helped himself to more whisky and soda. Kemp got up, looked about him, and fetched himself a glass from his spare room.

“It’s wild—but I suppose I may drink.”

“You haven’t changed much, Kemp, these dozen years. You fair men don’t. Cool and methodical… I must tell you. We will work together!”

“But how was it all done?” said Kemp, “and how did you get like this?”

“For God’s sake let me smoke in peace for a little while, and then I will begin to tell you.”

But the story was not told that night. The Invisible Man’s wrist was growing painful; he was feverish, exhausted, and his mind came round to brood upon his chase down the hill and the struggle about the inn. He began his story and fell away from it. He spoke in fragments of Marvel, he smoked faster, his voice grew angry. Kemp tried to gather what he could.

“He was afraid of me—I could see he was afraid of me,” said the Invisible Man many times over. “He meant to give me the slip—he was always casting about![12] What a fool I was!

“The cur!

“I was furious. I should have killed him—”

“Where did you get the money?” asked Kemp abruptly.

The Invisible Man was silent for a space. “I can’t tell you to–night.”

He groaned suddenly and leaned forward, supporting his invisible head on invisible hands.

“Kemp,” he said, “I’ve had no sleep for near three days, except a couple of dozes of an hour or so. I must sleep soon.”

"Well, have my room—have this room."

“But how can I sleep? If I sleep—he will get away. Ugh! What does it matter?”

“What’s the shot wound?” asked Kemp.

“Nothing—scratch and blood. Oh, God! How I want sleep!”

“Why not?”

The Invisible Man appeared to be regarding Kemp. “Because I’ve a particular objection to being caught by my fellow–men,” he said slowly.

Kemp started.

“Fool that I am!” said the Invisible Man, striking the table smartly. “I’ve put the idea into your head.”

Herbert George Wells

THE INVISIBLE MAN

CHAPTER XX

AT THE HOUSE IN GREAT PORTLAND STREET

For a moment Kemp sat in silence, staring at the back of the headless figure at the window. Then he started, struck by a thought, rose, took the Invisible Man’s arm, and turned him away from the outlook.

“You are tired,” he said, “and while I sit you walk about. Have my chair.”

He placed himself between Griffin and the nearest window.

For a space Griffin sat silent, and then he resumed abruptly:

“I had left the Chesilstowe College already,” he said, “when that happened. It was last December. I had taken a room in London, a large unfurnished room in a big, ill–managed lodging–house in a slum near Great Portland Street. The room was soon full of the appliances I had bought with his money, and the work was going on steadily, successfully, drawing near an end. I was like a man emerging from a thicket, and suddenly coming on some unmeaning tragedy. I went to bury my father. My mind was still on this research, and I did not lift a finger to save his character. I remember the funeral, the cheap hearse, the scant ceremony, the windy, frost–bitten hillside, and the old college friend of his who read the service over him—a shabby, black, bent old man with a snivelling cold.

“I remember walking back to the empty home through the place that had once been a village and was now patched and tinkered by the jerry builders into the ugly likeness of a town. Every way the roads ran out at last into the desecrated fields and ended in rubble heaps and rank, wet weeds. I remember myself as a gaunt, black figure, going along the slippery, shiny side–walk, and the strange sense of detachment I felt from the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place…

“I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the victim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant[1] required my attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair.

“But going along the High Street my old life came back to me for a space, I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met…

“Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very ordinary person.

“It was all like a dream, that visit to the old place. I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolation. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of life.[2] Re–entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details.

“I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes. We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cipher in those books that tramp has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered, between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No—not these Rontgen vibrations; I don’t know that these others of mine have been described, yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos—principally, and these I worked with a cheap gas–engine… My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it soft and white in the flicker of the flashes, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish.

“I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again.

“And then came a curious experience, I heard a miaow behind me, and, turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head. ’Everything ready for you,’ I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring—the poor beast was starving— and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round, the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle–bed, and I gave her butter to get her to wash.”

“And you processed her?”

“I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the process failed.”

“Failed?”

“In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff—what is it? At the back of the eye in a cat. You know?”

“Tapetum.”

“Yes, the tapetum. It didn’t go. After I’d given the stuff to bleach the blood and done certain other things to her, I gave the beast opium, and put her and the pillow she was sleeping on, on the apparatus. And after all the rest had faded and vanished, there remained the two little ghosts of her eyes.”

“Odd.”

“I can’t explain it. She was bandaged and clamped of course—so I had her safe but she awoke while she was still misty, and miaowed dismally, and some one came knocking. It was an old woman from downstairs, who suspected me of vivisecting—a drink–sodden old creature, with only a cat to care for in all the world. I whipped out some chloroform, applied it, and answered the door. ’Did I hear a cat?’ she asked. ’My cat? ’Not here,’ said I, very politely. She was a little doubtful, and tried to peer past me into the room—strange enough to her, no doubt, bare walls, uncurtained windows, truckle–bed, with the gas–engine vibrating, and the seethe of the radiant points,[3] and that faint stinging of chloroform in the air. She had to be satisfied at last, and went away again.”

“How long did it take?” asked Kemp.

“Three or four hours—the cat. The bones and sinews and the fat were the last to go, and the tips of the coloured hairs. And, as I say, the back of the eye, tough, iridiscent stuff it is, wouldn’t go at all.

“It was night outside long before the business was over, and nothing was to be seen but the dim eyes and the claws. I stopped the gas–engine, felt for and stroked the beast, which was still insensible, released its fastenings, and then, being tire, left it sleeping on the invisible pillow and went to bed. I found it hard to sleep. I lay awake thinking weak, aimless stuff, going over the experiment again and again, or dreaming feverishly of things growing misty and vanishing about me until everything, the ground I stood on, vanished, and so I came to that sickly, falling nightmare one gets. About two the cat began miaowing about the room. I tried to hush it by talking to it, and then I decided to turn it out. I remember the shock I had striking the light—there were just the round eyes shining green—and nothing round them. I would have given it milk, but I hadn’t any. It wouldn’t be quiet, it just sat down and miaowed at the door. I tried to catch it, with an idea of putting it out of the window, but it wouldn’t be caught, it vanished. It kept on miaowing in different parts of the room. At last I opened the window and made a bustle. I suppose it went out at last. I never saw nor heard any more of it.

“Then—Heaven knows why—I fell thinking of my father’s funeral again, and the dismal, windy hillside, until the day had come. I found sleep was hopeless, and, locking my door after me, wandered out into the morning streets.”

“You don’t mean to say there’s an Invisible Cat at large in the world?” said Kemp.

“If it hasn’t been killed,” said the Invisible Man. “Why not?”

“Why not?” said Kemp. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s very probably been killed,” said the Invisible Man. “It was alive four days after, I know, and down a grating in Great Tichfield Street, because I saw a crowd round the place trying to see whence the miaowing came.”

He was silent for the best part of a minute. Then he resumed abruptly: “I remember that morning before the change very vividly.

“I must have gone up Great Portland Street—for I remember the barracks in Albany Street and the horse soldiers coming out, and at last I found myself sitting in the sunshine and feeling very ill and strange on the summit of Primrose Hill. It was a sunny day in January—one of those sunny, frosty days that came before the snow this year. My weary brain tried to formulate the position, to plot out a plan of action.

“I was surprised to find, now that my prize was within my grasp how inconclusive its attainment seemed. As a matter of fact I was worked out, the intense stress of nearly four years’ continuous work left me incapable of any strenght or feeling. I was apathetic, and I tried in vain to recover the enthusiasm of my first inquiries, the passion of discovery that had enabled me to compass even the downfall of my father’s gray hairs.[4] Nothing seemed to matter. I saw pretty clearly this was a transient mood, due to overwork and want of sleep, and that either by drugs or rest it would be possible to recover my energies.

“All I could think clearly was that the thing had to be carried through; the fixed idea still ruled me. And soon, for the money I had was almost exhausted, I looked about me at the hillside with children playing and girls watching them, and tried to think of all the fantastic advantages an invisible man would have in the world. After a time I crawled home, took some food and a strong dose of strychnine, and went to sleep in my clothes on my unmade bed… Strychnine is a grand tonic, Kemp, to take the rlabbiness out of a man.”

“It’s the devil,” said Kemp. “It’s the pal?olithic in a bottle.”

“I awoke vastly invigorated and rather irritable. You know?”

“I know the stuff.”

“And there was some one rapping at the door. It was my landlord with threats and inquiries, an old Polish Jew in a long gray coat and greasy slippers. I had been tormenting a cat in the night, he was sure—the old woman’s tongue had been busy. He insisted on knowing all about it. The laws of this country against vivisection were very severe—he might be liable.[5] I denied the cat. Then the vibration of the little gas–engine could be felt all over the house, he said. That was true, certainly. He edged round me into the room, peering about over his German silver spectacles, and a sudden dread came into my mind that he might carry away something of my secret. I tried to keep between him and the concentrating apparatus I had arranged, and that only made him more curious. What was I doing? Why was I always alone and secretive? Was it legal? Was it dangerous? I paid nothing but the usual rent. His had always been a most respectable house—in a disreputable neighbourhood. Suddenly my temper gave way. I told him to get out. He began to protest, to jabber of his right of entry. In a moment I had him by the collar—something ripped—and he went spinning out into his own passage. I slammed and locked the door and sat down quivering.

“He made a fuss outside, which I disregarded, and after a time he went away.

“But this brought matters to a crisis. I did not know what he would do, nor even what he had the power to do. To move to fresh apartments would have meant delay— altogether I had barely twenty pounds left in the world, for the most part in a bank—and I could not afford that. Vanish! It was irresistible. Then there would be an inquiry, the sacking of my room.

“At the thought of the possibility of my work being exposed or interrupted at its very climax, I became angry and active. I hurried out with my three books of notes, my cheque book—the tramp has them now—and directed them from the nearest Post Office to a house of call for letters and parcels[6] in Great Portland Street. I tried to go out noiselessly. Coming in, I found my landlord going quietly upstairs—he had heard the door close, I suppose. You would have laughed to see him jump aside on the landing as I came tearing after him. He glared at me as I went by him, and I made the house quiver with the slamming of my door, I heard him come shuffling up to my door, hesitate, and go down. I set to work upon my preparations forthwith.

“It was all done that evening and night. While I was still sitting under the sickly, drowsy influence of the drugs that decolourise blood, there came a repeated knocking at the door. It ceased, footsteps went away and returned, and the knocking was resumed. There was an attempt to push something under the door—a blue paper. Then in a fit of irritation I rose, and went and flung the door wide open. ’Now then?’ said I.

“It was the landlord, with a notice of ejectment or something. He held it out to me, saw something odd about my hands, I expect, and lifted his eyes to my face.

“For a moment he gaped. Then he gave a sort of inarticulate cry, dropped candle and writ together, and went blundering down the dark passage to the stairs.

“I shut the door, locked it, and went to the looking–glass. Then I understood his terror… My face was white—like white stone.

“But it was all horrible. I had not expected the suffering. A night of racking anguish, sickness, and fainting. I set my teeth, though my skin was presently afire, all my body afire, but I lay there like grim death.[7] I understood now how it was the cat had howled until I chloroformed it. Lucky it was I lived alone and untended in my room. There were times when I sobbed, and groaned, and talked. But I stuck to it… I became insensible, and woke languid in the darkness.

“The pain had passed. I thought I was killing myself, and I did not care. I shall never forget that dawn, and the strange horror of seeing that my hands had become as clouded glass, and watching them grow clearer and thinner as the day went by, until at last I could see the sickly disorder of my room through them, though I closed my transparent eyelids. My limbs became glassy, the bones and arteries faded, vanished, and the little white nerves went last. I gritted my teeth and stayed there to the end… At last only the dead tips of the finger–nails remained, pallid and white, and the brown stain of some acid upon my fingers.

“I struggled up. At first I was as incapable as a swathed infant—stepping with limbs I could not see. I was weak and very hungry. I went and stared at nothing in my shaving glass—at nothing, save where an attenuated pigment still remained behind the retina of my eyes, fainter than mist. I had to hang on to the table and press my forehead to the glass.

“It was only by a frantic effort of will that I dragged myself back to the apparatus, and completed the process.

“I slept during the forenoon, pulling a sheet over my eyes to shut out the light, and about midday I was awakened again by a knocking. My strength had returned. I sat up and listened and heard a whispering. I sprang to my feet, and as noiselessly as possible began to detach the connections of my apparatus, and to distribute it about the room so as to destroy the suggestions of its arrangement. Presently the knocking was renewed and voices called, first my landlord’s and then two others. To gain time I answered them. The invisible rag and pillow came to hand, and I opened the window and pitched them out on to the cistern cover. As the window opened a heavy crash came at the door. Some one had charged it with the idea of smashing the lock. But the stout bolts I had screwed up some days before stopped him. That startled me—made me angry. I began to tremble and do things hurriedly.

“I tossed together some loose paper, straw, packing–paper, and so forth, in the middle of the room, and turned on the gas. Heavy blows began to rain upon the door. I could not find the matches. I beat my hands on the wall with rage. I turned down the gas again, stepped out of the window on the cistern cover, very softly lowered the sash, and sat down, secure and invisible, but quivering with anger, to watch events. They split a panel, I saw, and in another moment they had broken away the staples of the bolts and stood in the open doorway. It was the landlord and his two step–sons—sturdy young men of three or four–and–twenty. Behind them fluttered the old hag of a woman from downstairs.

“You may imagine their astonishment at finding the room empty. One of the younger men rushed to the window at once, flung it open and stared out. His staring eyes, and thick–lipped, bearded face came a foot from my face. I was half–minded[8] to hit his silly countenance, but I arrested my doubled fist.

“He stared right through me. So did the others as they joined him. The old man went and peered under the bed, and then they all made a rush for the cupboard. They had to argue about it at length in Yiddish and Cockney English. They concluded I had not answered them, that their imagination had deceived them. A feeling of extraordinary elation took the place of my anger as I sat outside the window and watched these four people—for the old lady came in, glancing suspiciously about her like a cat—trying to understand the riddle of my existence.

“The old man, so far as I could understand his polyglot,[9] agreed with the old lady that I was a vivisectionist. The sons protested in garbled English that I was an electrician, and appealed to[10] the dynamos and radiators. They were all nervous against my arrival,[11] although I found subsequently that they had bolted the front door. The old lady peered into the cupboard and under the bed. One of my fellow–lodgers, a costermonger, who shared the opposite room with a butcher, appeared on the landing, and he was called in, and told incoherent things.

“It occurred to me that the peculiar radiators I had, if they fell into the hands of some acute, well–educated person, would give me away too much, and, watching my opportunity, il descended from the window–sill into the room and dodging the old woman tilted one of the little dynamos off its fellow on which it was standing, and smashed both apparatus. How scared they were!… Then, while they were trying to explain the smash, I slipped out of the room and went softly downstairs.

“I went into one of the sitting–rooms and waited until they came down, still speculative and argumentative, all a little disappointed at finding no ’horrors’ and all a little puzzled how they stood legally towards me. As soon as they had gone on down to the basement, I slipped up again with a box of matches, fired my heap of paper and rubbish, put fhe chairs and bedding thereby, led the gas to the affair by means of an indiarubber tube—”

“You fired the house?” exclaimed Kemp.

“Fired the house! It was the only way to cover my trail, and no doubt it was insured… I slipped the bolts of the front door quietly and went out into the street. I was invisible, and I was only just beginning to realise the extraordinary advantage my invisibility gave me. My head was already teeming with plans of all the wild and wonderful things I had now impunity to do.

CHAPTER XXI

IN OXFORD STREET

In going downstairs the first time I found an unexpected difficulty because I could not see my feet; indeed, I stumbled twice, and there was an unaccustomed clumsiness in gripping the bolt. By not looking down, however, I managed to walk on the level passably well.

“My mood, I say, was one of exultation. I felt as a seeing man might do, with padded feet and noiseless clothes, in a city of the blind. I experienced a wild impulse to jest, to startle people, to clap them on the back, fling people’s hats astray, and generally revel in my extraordinary advantage.

“But hardly had I emerged upon Great Portland Street, however (my lodging was close to the big draper’s shop there), when I heard a clashing concussion, and was hit violently behind, and turning, saw a man carrying a basket of soda–water siphons, and looking in amazement at his burden. Although the blow had really hurt me, I found something so irresistible in his astonishment that I laughed aloud. ’The devil’s in the basket,’ I said, and suddenly twisted it out of his hand. He let go incontinently, and I swung the whole weight up into the air.

“But a fool of a cabman, standing outside a public–house, made a sudden rush for this, and his extended fingers took me with excruciating violence under the ear. I let the whole down with a smash on the cabman, and then, with shouts and the clatter of feet about me, people coming out of shops, vehicles pulling up, I realised what I had done for myself,[1] and cursing my folly, backed against a shop window and prepared to dodge out of the confusion. In a moment I should be wedged into a crowd and inevitably discovered. I pushed by a butcher boy, who luckily did not turn to see the nothingness that shoved him aside, and dodged behind the cabman’s four–wheeler. I do not know how they settled the business. I hurried straight across the road, which was happily clear, and hardly heeding which way I went in the fright of detection the incident had given me, plunged into the afternoon throng of Oxford Street.

“I tried to get into the stream of people, but they were too thick for me, and in a moment my heels were being trodden upon. I took the gutter, the roughness of which I found painful to my feet, and forthwith the shaft of a crawling hansom dug me forcibly under the shoulder blade, reminding me that I was already bruised severely. I staggered out of the way of the cab, avoided a perambulator by a convulsive movement, and found myself behind the hansom. A happy thought saved me, and as this drove slowly along I followed in its immediate wake, trembling and astonished at the turn of my adventure, and not only trembling but shivering. It was a bright day in January, and I was stark naked, and the thin slime of mud that covered the road was near freezing. Foolish as it seems to me now, I had not reckoned that, transparent or not, I was still amenable to the weather and all its consequences.

“Then suddenly a bright idea came into my head. I ran round and got into the cab. And so, shivering, scared, and sniffing with the first intimations of a cold, and with the bruises in the small of my back growing upon my attention,[2] I drove slowly along Oxford Street and past Tottenham Court Road. My mood was as different from that in which I had sallied forth ten minutes since as it is possible to imagine. This invisibility, indeed! The one thought that possessed me now was how to get out of the scrape I was in.

“We crawled past Mudie’s,[3] and there a tall woman, with five or six yellow–labelled books, hailed my cab, and I sprang out just in time to escape her, shaving a railway van narrowly[4] in my flight. I made off up the roadway to Bloomsbury Square, intending to strike north beyond the Museum,[5] and so get into the quiet district, I was now cruelly chilled, and the strangeness of my situation so unnerved me that I whimpered as I ran. At the westward corner of the square a little white dog ran out of the Pharmaceutical Society’s offices, and incontinently made for me, nose down.

“I had never realised it before, but the nose is to the mind of a dog what the eye is to the mind of a seeing man. Dogs perceive the scent of a man moving as men perceive his visible appearance. This brute began barking and leaping, showing, as it seemed to me only too plainly, that he was aware of me. I crossed Great Russell Street, glancing over my shoulder as I did so, and went some way along Montague Street before I realised what I was running towards.

“Then I became aware of a blare of music, and looking along the street saw a number of people advancing out of Russell Square, red jerseys and the banner of the Salvation Army[6] to the fore. Such a crowd, chanting in the roadway and scoffing on the pavement, I could not hope to penetrate, and dreading to go back and farther from home again, and, deciding on the spur of the moment, I ran up the white steps of a house facing the Museum railings, and stood there until the crowd should have passed. Happily the dog stopped at the noise of the band, hesitated, and turned tail, running back to Bloomsbury Square again.

“On came the band, bawling with unconscious irony some hymn about ’When shall we see His face?’ and it seemed an interminable time to me before the tide of the crowd washed along the pavement by me. Thud, thud, thud, came the drum with a vibrating resonance, and for the moment I did not notice two urchins stopping at the railings by me. ’See ’em,’ said one. ’See what?’ said the other. ’Why—them footmarks—bare. Like what you makes in mud.’

“I looked down and saw the youngsters had stopped and were gaping at the muddy footmarks I had left behind me, up the newly whitened steps. The passing people elbowed and jostled them, but their confounded intelligence was arrested. ’Thud, thud, thud, when, thud, shall we see, thud, His face, thud, thud.’ ’There’s a barefoot man gone up them steps, or I don’t know nothing,’ said one. ’And he ain’t never come down again. And his foot was a–bleeding.’

"The thick of the crowd had already passed. ’Looky there, Ted,’ quoth the younger of the detectives with the sharpness of surprise in his voice, and pointed straight at my feet. I looked down and saw at once the dim suggestion of their outline sketched in splashes of mud. For a moment I was paralysed.

“ ’Why, that’s rum!’ said the elder. ’Dashed rum! It’s just like the ghost of a foot, ain’t it?’ He hesitated and advanced with outstretched hand. A man pulled up short to see what he was catching, and then a girl. In another moment he would have touched me. Then I saw what to do. I made a step, the boy started back with an exclamation, and with a rapid movement I swung myself over into the portico of the next house. But the smaller boy was sharp enough to follow the movement, and before I was well down the steps and upon the pavement he had recovered from his momentary astonishment, and was shouting out that the feet had gone over the wall.

“They rushed round and saw my new footmarks flash into being[7] on the lower step and upon the pavement.

“ ’What’s up?’ asked some one.

“ ’Feet! Look! Feet running!’

“Everybody in the road, except my three pursuers, was pouring along after the Salvation Army, and this flow not only impeded me but them. There was an eddy of surprise and interrogation. At the cost of bowling over one young fellow I got through, and in another moment I was running headlong round the circuit of Russell Square, with six or seven astonished people following my footmarks. There was no time for explanation, or else the whole host would have been after me.

“Twice I doubled round corners, thrice I crossed the road and came back on my tracks, and then as my feet grew hot and dry the damp impressions began to fade. At last I had a breathing–space, and rubbed my feet clean with my hands, and so got away altogether. The last I saw of the chase was a little group of a dozen people, perhaps, studying with infinite perplexity a slowly drying footprint that had resulted from a puddle in Tavistock Square, a footprint as isolated and incomprehensible to them as Crusoe’s solitary discovery.[8]

“This running warmed me to a certain extent, and I went on with a better courage through the maze of less frequented roads that runs thereabout. My back had now become very stiff and sore, my tonsils were painful from the cabman’s fingers, and the skin of my neck had been scratched by his nails; my feet hurt exceedingly, and I was lame from a little cut on one foot. I saw in time a blind man approaching me, and fled limping, for I feared his subtle intuitions. Once or twice accidental collisions occurred, and I left people amazed with unaccountable curses ringing in their ears. Then came something silent and quiet upon my face, and across the square fell a thin veil of slowly falling flakes of snow. I had caught a cold, and do as I would I could not avoid an occasional sneeze. And every dog that came in sight, with its pointing nose and curious sniffing, was a terror to me.

“Then came men and boys running, first one then others, and shouting as they ran. It was a fire. They ran in the direction of my lodging, and looking back down a street I saw a mass of black smoke streaming up above the roofs and telephone wires. It was, I felt assured, my lodging that was burning; my clothes, apparatus, all my resources, indeed, except my cheque–book and the three volumes of memoranda that awaited me in Great Portland Street, were there. Burning! I had burnt my boats—if ever a man did! The place was blazing.”

The Invisible Man paused and thought. Kemp glanced nervously out of the window. “Yes!” he said, “go on.”

Herbert George Wells
THE INVISIBLE MAN

CHAPTER XXV

THE HUNTING OF THE INVISIBLE MAN

For a space Kemp was too inarticulate to make Adye understand the swift things that had just happened. They stood on the landing, Kemp speaking hurriedly, the grotesque swathings of Griffin still on his arm. But presently Adye began to grasp something of the situation.

“He is mad,” said Kemp; “inhuman. He is pure selfishness. He thinks of nothing but his own advantage, his own safety. I have listened to such a story this morning of brutal self–seeking… He has wounded men. He will kill them unless we can prevent him. He will create a panic. Nothing can stop him. He is going out now— furious!”

“He must be caught,” said Adye. “That is certain.”

“But how?” cried Kemp, and suddenly became full of ideas. “You must begin at once; you must set every available man to work; you must prevent his leaving this district. Once he gets away he may go through the countryside as he wills, killing and maiming. He dreams of a reign of terror! A reign of terror, I tell you. You must set a watch on trains and roads and shipping. The garrison must help. You must wire for help. The only thing that may keep him here is the thought of recovering some books of notes he counts of value. I will tell you of that! There is a man in your police station—Marvel.”

“I know,” said Adye, “I know. Those books—yes. But the tramp…”

“Says he hasn’t them. But he thinks the tramp has. And you must prevent him from eating or sleeping—day and night the country must be astir for him. Food must be locked up and secured, all food, so that he will have to break his way to it. The houses everywhere must be barred against him. Heaven send us cold nights and rain! The whole countryside must begin hunting and keep hunting. I tell you, Adye, he is a danger, a disaster. Unless he is pinned down and secured, it is frightful to think of the things that may happen.”

“What else can we do?” said Adye. “I must go down at once and begin organising. But why not come? Yes—you come too! Come, and we must hold a sort of council of war—get Hopps to help—and the railway managers. By Jove! it’s urgent. Come along—tell me as we go. What else is there we can do? Put that stuff down.”

In another moment Adye was leading the way downstairs. They found the front door open and the policemen standing outside staring at empty air. “He’s got away, sir,” said one.

“We must go to the central station at once,” said Adye. “One of you go on down and get a cab to come up and meet us—quickly. And now, Kemp, what else?”

“Dogs,” said Kemp. “Get dogs. They don’t see him, but they wind him. Get dogs.”

“Good,” said Adye. “It’s not generally known, but the prison officials over at Halstead know a man with bloodhounds. Dogs. What else?”

“Bear in mind,” said Kemp, “his food shows. After eating, his food shows until it is assimilated. So that he has to hide after eating. You must keep on beating.[1] Every thicket, every quiet corner. And put all weapons—all implements that might be weapons, away. He can’t carry such things for long. And what he can snatch up and strike men with must be hidden away.”

“Good again,” said Adye. “We shall have him yet!”

“And on the roads—” said Kemp, and hesitated.

“Yes?” said Adye.

“Powdered glass,” said ’Kemp. “It’s cruel, I know. But think of what he may do!”

Adye drew the air in between his teeth sharply. “It’s unsportsmanlike. I don’t know. But I’ll have powdered glass got ready. If he goes too far…”

“The man’s become inhuman, I tell you,” said Kemp. “I am as sure he will establish a reign of terror—so soon as he has got over the emotions of this escape—as I am sure I am talking to you. Our only chance is to be ahead. He has cut himself off from his kind. His blood be upon his own head.”

CHAPTER XXVI

THE WICKSTEED MURDER

The Invisible Man seems to have rushed out of Kemp’s house in a state of blind fury. A little child playing near Kemp’s gateway was violently caught up and thrown aside, so that its ankle was broken—and thereafter for some hours he passed out of human perceptions. No one knows where he went nor what he did. But one can imagine him hurrying through the hot June forenoon, up the hill and on to the open downland behind Port Burdock, raging and despairing at his intolerable fate, and sheltering at last, heated and weary, amid the thickets of Hintondean, to piece together again his shattered schemes against his species. That seems the most probable refuge for him, for there it was he reasserted himself in a grimly tragical manner about two in the afternoon.

One wonders what his state of mind may have been[1] during that time and what plans he devised. No doubt he was almost ecstatically exasperated by Kemp’s treachery, and though we may be able to understand the motives that led to that deceit, we may still imagine, and even sympathise a little with the fury the attempted surprise must have occasioned. Perhaps something of the stunned astonishment of his Oxford Street experiences may have returned to him, for evidently he had counted on Kemp’s co–operation in his brutal dream of a terrorised world. At any rate, he vanished from human ken[2] about midday, and no living witness can tell what he did until about half–past two. It was a fortunate thing, perhaps, for humanity, but for him it was a fatal inaction.

During that time a growing multitude of men scattered over the countryside were busy. In the morning he had still been simply a legend, a terror; in the afternoon, by virtue chiefly of Kemp’s dryly worded proclamation, he was presented as a tangible antagonist, to be wounded, captured, or overcome, and the countryside began organising itself with inconceivable rapidity. By two o’clock even, he might still have removed himself out of the district by getting aboard a train, but after two that became impossible, every passenger train along the lines, on a great parallelogram between Southampton, Winchester, Brighton and Horsham, travelled with locked doors, and the goods traffic was almost entirely suspended. And in a great circle of twenty miles round Port Burdock men armed with guns and bludgeons were presently setting out in groups of three and four, with dogs, to beat roads and fields.

Mounted policemen rode along the country lanes, stopping at every cottage and warning the people to lock up their houses and keep indoors unless they were armed, and all the elementary schools had broken up by three o’clock, and the children, scared and keeping together in groups, were hurrying home. Kemp’s proclamation—signed, indeed, by Adye—was posted over almost the whole district by four or five o’clock in the afternoon. It gave briefly but clearly all the conditions of the struggle, the necessity of keeping the Invisible Man from food and sleep, the necessity for incessant watchfulness, and for a prompt attention to any evidence of his movements. And so swift and decided was the action of the authorities, so prompt and universal was the belief in this strange being, that before nightfall an area of several hundred square miles was in a stringent state of siege. And before nightfall, too, a thrill of horror went through the whole watching, nervous countryside, and going from whispering mouth to mouth, swift and certain over the length and breadth of the country passed the story of the murder of Mr. Wicksteed.

If our supposition that the Invisible Man’s refuge was the Hintondean thickets is correct, then we must suppose that in the early afternoon he sallied out again, bent upon some project that involved the use of a weapon. We cannot know what the project was, but the evidence that he had the iron rod in his hand before he met Wicksteed is to me, at least, overwhelming.

Of course we can know nothing of the details of that encounter. It occurred on the edge of a gravel pit, not two hundred yards from Lord Burdock’s lodge gate.[3] Everything points to a desperate struggle—the trampled ground, the numerous wounds Mr. Wicksteed received, his splintered walking–stick—but why the attack was made, save in a murderous frenzy, it is impossible to imagine. Indeed, the theory of madness is almost unavoidable. Mr. Wicksteed was a man of forty–five or forty–six, steward to Lord Burdock, of inoffensive habits and appearance, and the very last person in the world to provoke such a terrible antagonist. Against him it would seem the Invisible Man used an iron rod, dragged from a piece of broken fence. He stopped this quiet man, going quietly home to his midday meal, attacked him, beat down his feeble defences, broke his arm, felled him, and smashed his head to a jelly.

Of course, he must have dragged this rod out of the fencing, before he met his victim—he must have been carrying it ready in his hand. Only two details beyond what has already been stated seem to bear on the matter.[4] One is the circumstance that the gravel–pit was not in Mr. Wicksteed’s direct path home, but nearly a couple of hundred yards out of his way. The other is the assertion of a little girl, to the effect that going to her afternoon school she saw the murdered man "trotting" in a peculiar manner across a field towards the gravel–pit. Her pantomime of his action suggests a man pursuing something on the ground before him and striking at it ever and again with his walking–stick. She was the last person to see him alive. He passed out of her sight to his death, the struggle being hidden from her only by a clump of beech trees and a slight depression in the ground.

Now this, to the present writer’s mind at least, certainly lifts the murder out of the realm of the absolutely wanton.[5] We may imagine that Griffin had taken the rod as a weapon indeed, but without any deliberate intention of using it to murder. Wicksteed may then have come by and noticed this rod inexplicably moving through the air. Without any thought of the Invisible Man—for Port Burdock is ten miles away—he may have pursued it. It is quite conceivable that he may not even have heard of the Invisible Man. One can, then, imagine the Invisible Man making off quietly in order to avoid discovering his presence in the neighbourhood, and Wicksteed, excited and curious, pursuing this unaccountably locomotive object,[7] finally striking at it.

No doubt the Invisible Man could easily have distanced his middle–aged pursuer under ordinary circumstances, but the position in which Wicksteed’s body was found suggests that he had the ill–luck to drive his quarry into a corner between a drift of stinging nettles and the gravel–pit. To those who appreciate the extraordinary irascibility of the Invisible Man the rest of the encounter will be easy to imagine.

But this is a pure hypothesis. The only undeniable facts—for stories of children are often unreliable—are the discovery of Wicksteed’s body, done to death, and of the blood–stained iron rod flung among the nettles. The abandonment of the rod by Griffin suggests that in the emotional excitement of the affair the purpose for which he took it—if he had a purpose—was abandoned. He was certainly an intensely egotistical and unfeeling man, but the sight of his victim, his first victim, bloody and pitiful at his feet, may have released some long–pent fountain of remorse to flood for a time whatever scheme of action he had contrived.

After the murder of Mr. Wicksteed, he would seem to have struck across the country[7] towards the downland. There is a story of a voice heard about sunset by a couple of men in a field near Fern Bottom. It was wailing and laughing, sobbing and groaning, and ever and again it shouted. It must have been queer hearing. It drove up across the middle of a clover field and died away towards the hills.

In the interim the Invisible Man must have learnt something of the rapid use Kemp had made of his confidences. He must have found houses locked and secured, he may have loitered about railway stations and prowled about inns, and no doubt he read the proclamations and realised something of the nature of the campaign against him. And as the evening advanced the fields became dotted here and there with groups of three or four men, and noisy with the yelping of dogs. These men–hunters had particular instructions in the case of an encounter as to the way they should support one another. But he avoided them all. We may understand something of his exasperation, and it could have been none the less because he himself had supplied the information that was being used so remorselessly against him. For that day at least he lost heart; for nearly twenty–four hours, save when he turned on Wicksteed, he was a hunted man. In the night he must have eaten and slept, for in the morning he was himself again, active, powerful, angry and malignant, prepared for his last great struggle against the world.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE SIEGE OF KEMP’S HOUSE

Kemp read a strange missive, written in pencil on a greasy sheet of paper.

“You have been amazingly energetic and clever,” this letter ran, “though what you stand to gain by it[1] I cannot imagine. You are against me. For a whole day you have chased me—you have tried to rob me of a night’s rest. But I have had food in spite of you, I have slept in spite of you, and the game is only beginning. The game is only beginning. There is nothing for it but[2] to start the Terror. This announces the first day of the Terror. Port Burdock is no longer under the Queen, tell your Colonel of Police, and the rest of them; it is under me—the Terror! This is day one of year one of the new epoch—the Epoch of the Invisible Man. I am Invisible Man the First. To begin with, the rule will be easy. The first day there will be one execution for the sake of example—a man named Kemp. Death starts for him today. He may lock himself away, hide himself away, get guards about him, put on armour if he likes—Death, the unseen Death, is coming. Let him take precautions—it will impress my people. Death starts from the pillar–box[3] by midday. The letter will fall in as the postman comes along, then off! The game begins. Death starts. Help him not, my people, lest Death fall upon you also. To–day Kemp is to die.”

Kemp read this letter twice. “It’s no hoax,” he said. “That’s his voice! And he means it.”

He turned the folded sheet over and saw on the addressed side of the postmark Hintondean and the prosaic detail, “2d.[4] to pay.”

He got up slowly, leaving his lunch unfinished—the letter had come by the one o’clock post—and went into his study. He rang for his housekeeper, and told her to go round the house at once, examine all the fastenings of the windows, and close all the shutters. He closed the shutters of his study himself. From a locked drawer in his bedroom he took a little revolver, examined it carefully, and put it into the pocket of his lounge jacket. He wrote a number of brief notes, one to Colonel Adye, gave them to his servant to take, with explicit instructions as to her way of leaving the house. “There is no danger,” he said, and added a mental reservation,[5] “to you.” He remained meditative for a space after doing this, and then returned to his cooling lunch.

He ate with gaps of thought. Finally he struck the table sharply. “We will have him!” he said, “and I am the bait. He will come too far.”

He went up to the belvedere, carefully shutting every door after him. “It’s a game,” he said, “an odd game—but the chances are all for me, Mr. Griffin, in spite of your invisibility. And pluck. Griffin contra mundum…[6] with a vengeance!”

He stood at the window staring at the hot hillside. “He must get food every day—and I don’t envy him. Did he really sleep last night? Out in the open somewhere— secure from collisions. I wish we could get some good cold, wet weather instead of the heat.

“He may be watching me now.”

He went close to the window. Something rapped smartly against the brickwork over the frame, and made him start violently back.

“I’m getting nervous” said Kemp. But it was five minutes before he went to the window again. “It must have been a sparrow,” he said.

Presently he heard the front door bell ringing and hurried downstairs. He unbolted and unlocked the door, examined the chain, put it up, and opened cautiously without showing himself. A familiar voice hailed him. It was Adye. “Your servant’s’ been assaulted, Kemp,” he said round the door.

“What!” exclaimed Kemp.

“Had that note of yours taken away from her. He’s close about here. Let me in.”

Kemp released the chain, and Adye entered through as narrow an opening as possible. He stood in the hall, looking with infinite relief at Kemp refastening the door. “"Note was snatched out of her hand. Scared her horribly. She’s down at the station. Hysterics. He’s close here. What was it about?”

Kemp swore.

“What a fool I was!” said Kemp. “I might have known. It’s not an hour’s walk from Hintondean. Already!”

“What’s up?” said Adye.

“Look here!” said Kemp, and led the way into his study. He handed Adye the Invisible Man’s letter. Adye read it, and whistled softly. “And you—?” said Adye.

“Proposed a trap—like a fool,” said Kemp, “and sent my proposal out by a maidservant. To him.”

Adye followed Kemp’s profanity.[7]

“He’ll clear out,” said Adye.

“Not him,” said Kemp.

A resounding smash of glass came from upstairs. Adye had a silvery glimpse of a little revolver half out of Kemp’s pocket. “It’s a window upstairs!” said Kemp, and led the way up. There came a second smash while they were still on the staircase. When they reached the study they found two of the three windows smashed, half the room littered with splintered glass, and one big flint lying on the writing–table. The two men stopped in the doorway contemplating the wreckage. Kemp swore again, and as he did so the third window went with a snap like a pistol, hung starred for a moment, and collapsed in jagged, shivering triangles into the room.

“What’s this for?” said Adye.

“It’s a beginning,” said Kemp.

“There’s no way of climbing up here?”

“Not for a cat,” said Kemp.

“No shutters?”

“Not here. All the downstairs rooms—Hallo!”

Smash, and then the whack of boards hit hard came from downstairs. “Confound him!” said Kemp. “That must be—yes—it’s one of the bedrooms. He’s going to do all the house. But he’s a fool. The shutters are up and the glass will fall outside. He’ll cut his feet.”

Another window proclaimed its destruction. The two men stood on the landing perplexed.

“I have it!”[8] said Adye. “Let me have a stick or something, and ’I’ll go down to the station and get the bloodhounds put on. That ought to settle him!”

Another window went the way of its fellows.[9]

“You haven’t a revolver?” asked Adye.

Kemp’s hand went to his pocket. Then he hesitated. “I haven’t one—at least to spare.”

“I’ll bring it back,” said Adye. “You’ll be safe here.”

Kemp, ashamed of his momentary lapse from truthfulness,[10] handed him the weapon.

“Now for the door,” said Adye.

As they stood hesitating in the hall, they heard one of the first–floor bedroom windows crack and clash. Kemp went to the door and began to slip the bolts as silently as possible. His face was a little paler than usual.

“You must step straight out,” said Kemp.

In another moment Adye was on the doorstep and the bolts were dropping back into the staples. He hesitated for a moment, feeling more comfortable with his back against the door. Then he marched, upright and square, down the steps. He crossed the lawn and approached the gate. A little breeze seemed to ripple over the grass. Something moved near him.

“Stop a bit,” said a Voice, and Adye stopped dead,[11] and his hand tightened on the revolver.

“Well?” said Adye, white and grim, and every nerve tense.

“Oblige me by going back to the house,” said the Voice, as tense and grim as Adye’s.

“Sorry,” said Adye, a little hoarsely, and moistened his lips with his tongue. The voice was on his left front, he thought; suppose he were to take his luck with a shot.

“What are you going for?” said the Voice, and there was a quick movement of the two, and a flash of sunlight from the open lip of Adye’s pocket.

Adye desisted and thought. “Where I go,” he said slowly, “is my own business.” The words were still on his lips, when an arm came round his neck, his back felt a knee, and he was sprawling backward. He drew clumsily and fired absurdly, and in another moment he was struck in the mouth and the revolver wrested from his grip. He made a vain clutch at a slippery limb, tried to struggle up and fell back. “Damn!” said Adye. The Voice laughed.

“I’d kill you now if it wasn’t the waste of a bullet,” it said. He saw the revolver in mid–air, six feet off, covering him.

“Well?” said Adye, sitting up.

“Get up,” said the Voice.

Adye stood up.

“Attention!” said the Voice, and then firmly, “Don’t try any games. Remember I can see your face, if you can’t see mine. You’ve got to go back to the house.”

“He won’t let me in,” said Adye.

“That’s a pity,” said the Invisible Man. “I’ve got no quarrel with you.”

Adye moistened his lips again. He glanced away from the barrel of the revolver, and saw the sea far off, very blue and dark under the midday sun, the smooth green down, the white cliff of the head, and the multitudinous town, and suddenly he knew that life was very sweet. His eyes came back to this little metal thing hanging between heaven and earth, six yards away. “What am I to do?” he said sullenly.

“What am I to do?” asked the Invisible Man. “You will get help. The only thing is for you to go back.”

“I will try. If he lets me in will you promise not to rush the door?”

“I’ve got no quarrel with you,” said the Voice.

Kemp had hurried upstairs after letting Adye out, and now, crouching among the broken glass, and peering cautiously over the edge of the study window–sill, he saw Adye stand parleying with the unseen. “Why doesn’t he fire?” whispered Kemp to himself. Then the revolver moved a little, and the glint of the sunlight flashed in Kemp’s eyes. He shaded his eyes and tried to see the course of the blinding beam.

“Surely!” he said. “Adye has given up the revolver.”

“Promise not to rush the door,” Adye was saying. “Don’t push a winning game too far.[11] Give a man a chance.”

“You go back to the house. I tell you flatly I will not promise anything.”

Adye’s decision seemed suddenly made. He turned towards the house, walking slowly with his hands behind him. Kemp watched him—puzzled. The revolver vanished, flashed again into sight, vanished again, and became evident on a closer scrutiny as a little dark object following Adye. Then things happened very quickly. Adye leapt backwards, swung round, clutched at this little object, missed it, threw up his hands and fell forward on his face, leaving a little puff of blue in the air. Kemp did not hear the sound of the shot. Adye writhed, raised himself on one arm, fell forward, and lay still.

For a space Kemp remained staring at the quiet carelessness of Adye’s attitude. The afternoon was very hot and still, nothing seemed stirring in all the world save a couple of yellow butterflies chasing each other through the shrubbery between the house and the road gate. Adye lay on the lawn near the gate. The blinds of all the villas down the hill road were drawn, but in one little green summer–house was a white figure, apparently an old man asleep. Kemp scrutinised the surroundings of the house for a glimpse of the revolver, but it had vanished. His eyes came back to Adye— The game was opening well.

Then came a ringing and knocking at the front door, that grew at last tumultuous, but, pursuant to Kemp’s instructions, the servants had locked themselves into their rooms. This was followed by a silence. Kemp sat listening and then began peering cautiously out of the three windows, one after another. He went to the staircase head and stood listening uneasily. He armed himself with his bedroom poker, and went to examine the interior fastenings of the ground–floor windows again. Everything was safe and quiet. He returned to the belvedere. Adye lay motionless over the edge of the gravel just as he had fallen. Coming along the road by the villas were the housemaid and two policemen.

Everything was deadly still. The three people seemed very slow in approaching. He wondered what his antagonist was doing.

He started. There was a smash from below. He hesitated and went downstairs again. Suddenly the house resounded with heavy blows and the splintering of wood. He heard a smash and the distinctive clang of the iron fastenings of shutters. He turned the key and opened the kitchen door. As he did so the shutters, split and splintering, came flying inward. He stood aghast. The window frame, save for one cross–bar, was still intact, but only little teeth of glass remained in the frame. The shutters had been driven in with an axe, and now the axe was descending in sweeping blows upon the window frame and the iron bars defending it. Then suddenly it leapt aside and vanished.

He saw the revolver lying on the path outside, and then the little weapon sprang into the air. He dodged back. The revolver cracked just too late, and a splinter from the edge of the closing door flashed over his head. He slammed and locked the door, and as he stood outside he heard Griffin shouting and laughing. Then the blows of the axe with their splitting and smashing accompaniments were resumed.

Kemp stood in the passage trying to think. In a moment the Invisible Man would be in the kitchen. This door would not keep him a moment, and then—

A ringing came at the front door again. It would be the policemen. He ran into the hall, put up the chain, and drew the bolts. He made the girl speak before he dropped the chain, and the three people blundered into the house in a heap, and Kemp slammed the door again.

“The Invisible Man!” said Kemp, “He has a revolver with two shots—left. He’s killed Adye. Shot him anyhow. Didn’t you see him on the lawn? He’s lying there.”

“Who?” said one of the policemen.

“Adye,” said Kemp.

“We came round the back way,” said the girl.

“What’s that smashing?” asked one of the policemen.

“He’s in the kitchen—or will be. He has found an axe—”

Suddenly the house was full of the Invisible Man’s resounding blows on the kitchen door. The girl stared towards the kitchen and stepped into the dining–room. Kemp tried to explain in broken sentences. They heard the kitchen door give.

“This way,” cried Kemp, bursting into activity, and bundled the policemen into the dining–room doorway.

“Poker,” said Kemp, and rushed to the fender.

He handed the poker he had carried to one policeman, and the dining–room one to the other.

He suddenly flung himself backward. “Whup,” said one policeman, ducked, and caught the axe on his poker. The pistol snapped its penultimate shot and ripped a valuable Sidney Cooper.[13] The second policeman brought his poker down on the little weapon, as one might knock down a wasp, and sent it rattling to the floor.

At the first clash the girl screamed, stood screaming for a moment by the fireplace, and then ran to open the shutters—possibly with an idea of escaping by the shattered window.

The axe receded into the passage and fell to a position about two feet from the ground. They could hear the Invisible Man breathing. “Stand away, you two,” he said. “I want that man Kemp.”

“We want you,” said the first policeman, making a quick step forward and wiping with his poker at the Voice. The Invisible Man must have started back, and he blundered into the umbrella stand.

Then, as the policeman staggered with the swing of the blow he had aimed, the Invisible Man countered with the axe, the helmet crumpled like paper, and the blow sent the man spinning to the floor at the head of the kitchen stairs.

But the second policeman, aiming behind the axe with his poker, hit something soft that snapped. There was a sharp exclamation of pain, and then the axe fell to the ground. The policeman wiped again at vacancy and hit nothing; he put his foot on the axe and struck again. Then he stood, poker clubbed, listening, intent for the slightest movement.

He heard the dining–room window open, and a quick rush of feet within. His companion rolled over and sat up, with the blood running down between his eye and ear. “Where is he?” asked the man on the floor.

“Don’t know. I’ve hit him. He’s standing somewhere in the hall unless he’s slipped past you. Dr. Kemp—sir!”

“Dr. Kemp,” cried the policeman again.

The second policeman began struggling to his feet. He stood up. Suddenly the faint pad of bare feet on the kitchen stairs could be heard. “Yap!” cried the first policeman, and flung his poker. It smashed a little gasbracket.

He made as if he would pursue the Invisible Man downstairs. Then he thought better of it, and stepped into the dining–room.

“Dr. Kemp—” he began, and stopped short.

“Dr. Kemp’s a hero,” he said, as his companion looked over his shoulder.

The dining–room window was wide open, and neither handmaid nor Kemp was to be seen.

The second policeman’s opinion of Kemp was terse and vivid.

Herbert George Wells
THE INVISIBLE MAN

Комментарий

Задача данного комментария — объяснить наиболее трудные для понимания языковые явления, а также реалии исторического и бытового характера, встречающиеся в тексте.

Язык книги, насыщенный идиоматическими оборотами, является образцом современного разговорного английского языка. Но там, где автор воспроизводит речь жителей Суссекса (графство в юго-восточной Англии), встречается много оборотов, свойственных английским диалектам и просторечию. Основными из этих отклонений от норм литературного английского языка являются следующие:

Двойное отрицание: he don't want no help.

Употребление формы Past вместо Past Participle в перфектных временах и в пассиве: he’s took your room; my sister being took up with her little ones. Это явление юмористически подчёркивается автором в сцене с матросом, читающим газету. Он «поправляет» её по–своему: “…it is supposed that he has taken—took, I suppose they mean—the road to Port Stowe.”

Употребление форм Present вместо Past: he give a name.

Употребление форм 1-го лица глаголов вместо 3-го и наоборот: he don’t; you likes.

Употребление форм единственного числа глаголов to be и to have вместо форм множественного числа: we was.

Употребление ain’t (несуществующего вообще в литературном языке) вместо любой формы настоящего времени глаголов to be и to have: he ain’t even given a name.

Неправильное образование глагольных форм: seed (прошедшее время от see, вместо saw).

Употребление старой формы Participle I: a–coming и инфинитива без to: I want know (характерно для диалектов).

Употребление архаических форм личных местоимений: ’ее (thee) (характерно для диалектов) и особой диалектной формы личных местоимений him и her — en (слабая форма ’п) с производным от него enself.

Употребление форм личного местоимения they, them вместо указательных местоимений these, those: they goggles; what a turn them bandages did give me.

Употребление указательного местоимения that вместо наречия so перед прилагательными: that bad, that trustful.

Употребление объектного падежа личных местоимений вместо именительного: and him a new guest.

Употребление прилагательного вместо соответствующего наречия: extraordinary strong; he can go through a cordon of policemen as easy as me or you could give the slip to a blind man.

Употребление формы неопределённого артикля а перед гласными: a extraordinary.

В книге нашли также отражение характерные особенности произношения жителей Суссекса:

1) Очень широкое употребление звука [α:] вместо [æ]: larder (ladder); marn (man); вместо [ɔ: и [ɔ]: Gard (God), gart (got), darg (dog), harse (horse); вместо [αι], [αu]: Arm darmed (I’m darned), nar (now);

2) Опущение звука [h] в начальном положении: ’е (he), ’ed (head) свойственное английскому просторечию вообще.

Предисловие.1

Родбертус–Ягецов, Карл (1805—1875) — немецкий историк и экономист, один из основоположников так называемого государственного социализма, апологет прусской монархии, ярый враг марксизма.

1.1

to strike a bargain — заключить сделку; зд. договориться о цене

1.2

with that much introduction — ограничившись только этим для знакомства. That much соотв. русскому «всего навсего»

1.3

no “haggler” — не из тех, кто торгуется. Отрицание с глаголом to be более выразительно и энергично, чем not. См. то же no hero — «отнюдь не герой», и no believer in voices — «не из тех, кто верит в голоса».

1.4

aid — зд. служанка. Ср. ниже help с тем же значением.

1.5

éclat [eι´klα:] (фр.) — зд. шик

1.6

side–lights — (зд.) боковые стёкла

1.7

her conversational advances were ill–timed — её попытки завязать разговор были несвоевременны

1.8

staccato (муз.) — коротко, отрывисто

1.9

verbal stabs — колкие замечания (букв. словесные уколы)

1.10

I’ll have them nicely dried — я велю их хорошо просушить. Употребление to have + сложное дополнение them dried указывает на то, что действие выполняется не субъектом, выраженным подлежащим, а кем–то другим. То же с глаголом get: I’ll… get the bloodhounds put on — «я велю натравить (на него) собак».

1.11

her face was eloquent of her surprise and perplexity — её лицо красноречиво свидетельствовало об удивлении и замешательстве

1.12

I never! There! — восклицания удивления или негодования

1.13

what she was messing about with now — с чем она опять там возится. To mess about with (something) — «возиться с чем–либо без толку».

1.14

what a turn them (правильно: these) bandages did give me — ну и напугали меня эти повязки! Употребление вспомогательного глагола to do в утвердительном предложении служит для эмфазы.

1.15

divin’ ’elmet (правильно: diving helmet) — шлем водолаза

1.16

Bless my soul alive! — восклицание удивления или негодования

1.17

taters (диал.) = potatoes

1.18

“Was she quite sure? No man with a trap would go over?” — вопросы оформлены кавычками как прямая речь, но прошедшее время и 3–е лицо указывает на так называемую несобственно прямую речь (переплетение прямой речи с авторским повествованием)

1.19

to snatch at an opening — ухватиться за возможность; зд. начать разговор

1.20

upsettled — неправильно вместо upset

1.21

the visitor was not to be drawn so easily — постояльца не так–то легко было заставить говорить

1.22

jest — искаженное just

1.23

Помимо основного значения «настоящий» regular употребляется в просторечии как усилительная частица «прямо–таки» и т.п.

1.24

a bark of a laugh — лающий смех. Так называемое связанное предложение, в котором основным элементом является второй — laugh; bark — приложение, определяющее его. См. a beast of a county

1.25

to them as had the doing for him (простореч.) — тем, кому пришлось ухаживать за ним

1.26

Millie had a hot time of it — Милли досталось

1.27

might have heard him at the coals — мог слышать как он мешает уголь в камине

2.1

clock–jobber (устар.) — часовщик

2.2

My sakes! — восклицание удивления

2.3

with a vivid sense of the dark spectacles — образно передавая впечатление от чёрных очков

2.4

She was certain, with a marked coolness. — Первая часть предложения — несобственно прямая речь. За ней следует авторская ремарка, показывающая, каким тоном миссис Холл отвечала постояльцу. Сочетание ремарки с несобственно прямой речью хорошо передаёт настороженность миссис Холл.

2.5

rum up (правильно: one) и ниже rum–looking customer — подозрительный человек

2.6

You don’t say so (разг.) — Не может быть!

2.7

By the week. — Понедельник; under the week — раньше чем через неделю

2.8

Get up, old girl! — зд. Ну, трогай, старуха! (обращаясь к лошади)

2.9

wim’простореч. — women

3.1

in hat, gloves and wrapper — отсутствие артикля при перечислении придаёт перечислению эмфатичность, подчёркивает множественность (… и в шляпе, и в пальто, и в перчатках)

3.2

dilettante [,dιlι´tæntι] итал. — зд. лениво

3.3

to get home on the stranger’s leg — вцепиться в ногу незнакомцу. Компонент home в подобных сочетаниях значит «прямо в цель», «в самую точку».

3.4

made as if he would stoop — сделал движение, словно желая наклониться

3.5

his dog didn’t have no (правильно: had no) business to bite her guests — его собака не имела никакого права кусать её постояльцев

3.6

general dealer — лавочник

3.7

judicial — зд. делающий глубокомысленные замечания

3.8

at all — в утвердительных конструкциях значит «хоть немного», в отрицательных — имеет значение «совсем», «ничуть»

3.9

rareдиал. = extremely

3.10

crate after crate yielded bottles — из одного ящика за другим вынимали бутылки

3.11

the table high with straw — на столе была гора соломы

3.12

bottle in one hand and test tube in the other — Отсутствие артикля (точнее «нулевой артикль») обычно для независимых конструкций, служащих обстоятельством образа действия. См. также knife in hand

3.13

went on ticking a list — продолжал делать пометки в списке

3.14

the colour’s come off patchy instead of mixing — (более тёмная) окраска выступила пятнами вместо того, чтобы смешиваться

4.1

overrode her by the easy expedient of an extra payment — легко побеждал её, предлагая дополнительную плату

4.2

artisks (искажённое artists) — художники

4.3

Здесь would указывает на повторность действия

4.4

Communication with the world beyond the village he had none. — необычный порядок слов (дополнение стоит на первом месте) выделяет слово communication как самое важное, и кроме того, даёт возможность употребить местоимение none, более выразительное, чем no

4.5

grew steadily upon him — всё усиливалась у него

4.6

could make neither head nor tail (of) — не могла решительно ничего понять

4.7

going gingerly over the syllables — осторожно произнося по слогам

4.8

out of her hearing there was a view largely entertained that… — втайне от неё многие держались того мнения, что…

4.9

probationary assistant in the National School — учитель народной школы, проходящий испытательный срок

4.10

the piebald view or some modification of it — теорию о том, что он пегий, или какой–либо вариант этой теории

4.11

Имеется в виду евангельская притча о рабе, который, получив от своего господина один талант (древняя денежная единица), закопал его в землю вместо того, чтобы пустить в оборот и получить прибыль; the man with the one talent стало обозначать человека, не умеющего пользоваться своими преимуществами

4.12

an urban brain–worker — горожанин, занимающийся умственным трудом

4.13

they surprised now and then — (которые) им иногда удавалось видеть. Одно из значений to surprise «застать врасплох».

4.14

the headlong pace… that swept him upon them round quiet corners — стремительность, с которой его несло на них из–за поворотов тихих улиц

4.15

would up with coat collars and down with hat brims — поднимали воротники и низко надвигали шляпы. Up и down (особенно с with) имеют тенденцию выступать в разговорном языке в функции глагола.

4.16

concert—in aid of the church lamps — концерт, сбор с которого должен был пойти на покупку ламп для церкви

4.17

more or less sharp or flat — более или менее фальшиво (букв. выше или ниже нужного тона)

4.18

hit upon — зд. ухватился за

4.19

ammonite — окаменелая раковина аммонита, которой мистер Бантинг пользовался как пресс–папье

4.20

Went in=I went in. Последующий рассказ Касса состоит в основном из неполных (эллиптических) предложений (в которых отсутствует либо подлежащее, либо сказуемое), передающих возбуждённое состояние рассказчика.

4.21

nurse fund — средства на содержание медицинской сестры

4.22

Would he subscribe?=asked him if he would subscribe. — Несобственно прямая речь. Начиная с этих слов идёт очень сжатая, вплоть до опущения артиклей (from window, up chimney) передача Кассом его собственных вопросов и ответов Невидимки.

4.23

blowing the cork out (фиг.) — давая волю своему раздражению

4.24

And out came the grievance. — Ну, он и начал жаловаться.

4.25

The man was just on the boil, and my question boiled him over. — Он просто кипел негодованием, и от моего вопроса всё его раздражение вылилось наружу.

4.26

blinkers (вульг.) — очки

4.27

starts scratch — не имеет преимуществ

4.28

cut out of the room (разг.) — выскочил из комнаты. См. также to cut off «убежать» и cut and ran в том же значении

5.1

was nerved to abrupt action — отважился на решительные действия

5.2

Of all the extraordinary occurences… — Из всех необыкновенных происшествий… (опущено «о которых я когда–либо слышал»). См подобные же восклицания изумления: Of all the extraordinary affairs и ещё более сокращённую форму Of all the curious!

5.3

to shoot the bolts back — отодвинуть засовы

5.4

search as they would — сколько ни искали. Would является аналитической формой сослагательного наклонения. Здесь would употреблено без повторения основного глагола, что характерно для данного оборота. См. do as I would «как я ни старался»

6.1

before Millie was hunted out for the day — прежде чем разыскали Милли, которая была нужна (зд. чтобы дать ей работу на день)

6.2

specific gravity — удельный вес; зд. крепость

6.3

sarsaparilla — сарсапарель, растение, корень которого содержит сапонины (вещества, способные образовывать пену). Миссис Холл клала сарсапарель в пиво, чтобы увеличить пенистость.

6.4

telescoping of the syllables — проглатывание слогов

6.5

You gart whad a wand? (диал.)=You got what I want?

6.6

’E’s not in uz room, ’e en’t (диал.)=He is not in his room, he isn’t.

6.7

If ’e en’t there… ’is close are. And what’s ’e doin’ ’ithout ’is close, than? ’Tas a most curius basness. (диал.)=If he isn’t there, his clothes are. And what is he doing without his clothes, then? It’s a most curious business.

6.8

Mr. Hall’s compliments, and the furniture upstairs was behaving most extraordinary. Would Mr. Wadgers come aroung? — Милли передаёт мистеру Веджерсу, что ей поручили сказать. Её слова даны в несобственно прямой речи. с сохранением особенностей её языка.

6.9

he was a knowing man, was Mr. Wadgers — он всё знал, этот мистер Веджерс. Повторение глагола–связки и подлежащего с инверсией является средством эмфазы.

6.10

Arm darmed if thet ent witchcraft. (диал.) — Будь я проклят, если это не колдовство.

6.11

В Англии существовало поверие, что подкова охраняет от ведьм и всякого колдовства.

6.12

The Anglo–Saxon genius for parliamentary government asserted itself: (ирон.) — Здесь проявилась способность англо–саксов к управлению при помощи парламентской системы. Дальнейшие слова: there was a great deal of talk and no decisive action раскрывают отношение автора к английской парламентской системе.

6.13

to bust (правильно: burst) open — взломать

6.14

A door onbust is always open to bustin’, but ye can’t onbust a bust door once you’ve busted en. (диал.) — Пока дверь не взломана, её всегда можно взломать, но нельзя сделать невзломанной дверь, раз её уже взломали.

6.15

left the alternative unsaid — не докончил. Подразумевается, что прямая речь должна была закончиться словами: I’m damned.

6.16

to bring up to that pitch — довести до такого состояния

7.1

to put two and two together — сделать соответствующие выводы

7.2

piqué paper ties — галстуки из бумаги в рубчик, как материал пике

7.3

cocoanut–shy — игра, в которой мишенью служат кокосовые орехи (распространённое ярмарочное развлечение в Англии)

7.4

the “Purple Fawn” — название трактира

7.5

royal ensigns — королевские штандарты

7.6

the first Victorian Jubilee — празднование 50–летия царствования королевы Виктории в 1887 г.

7.7

Nar, nar! (диал.)=Now, now! — Полегче!

7.8

to have the better (of) — одержать верх

7.9

Don’t ’good woman’ me=Don’t call me ‘good woman’. — употребление слов good woman в функции глагола придаёт особую выразительность и резкость ответу миссис Холл.

7.10

saw the “Coach and Horses” violently firing out its humanity (шутл.) — видели, как из постоялого двора «Повозка и Кони» стремительно вылетели люди

7.11

the swing man — владелец качелей; smocked elders — старики в блузах; aproned gipsies — цыганки в фартуках

7.12

Babel — галдёж, неразбериха. По библейскому сказанию, бог разгневался на жителей Вавилона за то, что они решили построить башню до небес, и смешал их языки так, что они перестали понимать друг друга. Ср. русск.: «Вавилонское столпотворение».

7.13

Ain’t hurt the girl, ’as ’e? (диал.)=He hasn’t hurt the girl, has he?

7.14

run at en with a knife (диал.)=ran at her with a knife

7.15

No ’ed, I tell ye. I don’t mean no manner of speaking, I mean Marn ’ithout a ’Ed! (диал.)=No head, I tell you. I don’t mean it as a manner of speaking, I mean a Man without a Head! С большой буквы даны слова, которые рассказчик особенно подчёркивает.

7.16

I tell ’e, ’e ain’t gart no ’ed ’tall. (диал.)=I tell you he has got no head at all.

7.17

’rest en (диал.)=arrest him

7.18

but ’ed or no ’ed , the warrant says ‘body’ — но есть ли голова или нет, в приказе сказано про «тело». Игра слов, основанная на том, что как юридический термин слово body употребляется в значении person.

7.19

disposed of him — зд. вывел его из строя

7.20

a web of pungency — едкий запах

7.21

brought up short — внезапно остановившись

7.22

ærial voice — голос Невидимки

7.23

the Unitarian — сторонник унитарной партии

7.24

mêlée [me´leι] (фр.) — свалка, схватка

7.25

scattered them abroad — рассеяла их

8.1

in transit — зд. в пути

8.2

Последняя из –ing–форм, в отличие от трёх предыдущих, относится опять к Гиббинсу, а не к Невидимке

9.1

embonpoint [α:n´bɔ:ŋwæŋ] (фр.) — полнота

9.2

furry silk hat — мохнатый цилиндр

9.3

the frequent substitution of twine and shoe–laces for buttons — замена во многих местах пуговиц бечёвкой и шнурками от ботинок

9.4

open–work — ажурная строчка (зд. иронич. о дырах на носках)

9.5

owdacious (искажённое audaciously) ugly — ужасно безобразные (букв. нагло безобразные)

9.6

a gentleman on tramp — джентльмен, занимающийся бродяжничеством. Употребляя слово gentleman, Марвел как бы возвышает себя в собственных глазах.

9.7

thundering (вульг.) — «чертовски», «чертовский»

9.8

and good county for boots, too — да ещё и графство, в котором обычно достаёшь хорошие сапоги

9.9

It beats it (разг.) — Это будет «почище». См. также this beats ghosts «это будет пострашнее привидений». Ср. однако this fair beats me, где переносное разговорное значение to beat иное: «это выше моего понимания».

9.10

coming on all fours — становясь на четвереньки

9.11

lemme — искажённое let me

9.12

peewit — чибис. Звукоподражательное слово, обозначающее и птицу, и её крик

9.13

So help me. — восклицание удивления (сокращение фразы “so help me god”)

9.14

I’m off my blooming chump! (вульг.) — Я спятил.

9.15

blarsted (или blasted) (вульг.) — чёртовы

9.16

whizz came a flint — (в воздухе) просвистел камень. Whizz — звукоподражательное слово для передачи звука летящего предмета. Особый характер употребления этого независимого члена предложения здесь (отсутствие запятой, которая отделяла бы его от всего предложения, и инверсия) приближает его к обстоятельственному слову.

9.17

It’s a fair do. (разг.) — Это просто мошенничество.

9.18

I’m done. — зд. Сдаюсь.

9.19

Tell us something I don’t know (разг.) — Не морочьте мне голову.

9.20

Vox et… (лат.) — начало цитаты Vox et praeterea nihil — голос и больше ничего. Повидимому, латинский перевод из Плутарха.

9.21

It won’t be so darn out–of–the–way like, then… — Тогда это не будет так чертовски странно. Сочетание out–of–the–way здесь адъективируется (уподобляется прилагательному) благодаря добавлению к нему like. Darn — одно из эвфемизмов слова damn (или damned) «проклятие» («проклятый»), которое само уже превратилось в ругательство. Другую такую замену см. там же: I’m dashed.

9.22

arf — искажённое half

9.23

howjer — искажённое how do you

9.24

How the dooce (искажённое deuce) is it done? (вульг.) — Как это делается, чёрт возьми?

9.25

Значение fairly (а в просторечии fair) как наречия степени колеблется от «более или менее» до «совершенно» (при глаголе).

9.26

I’m all in a dizzy (простореч.) — у меня голова идёт кругом

10.1

not at all assured of its back — неуверенный в поддержке

10.2

transcending experience — выходящие за рамки жизненного опыта

10.3

Sunday–school — воскресная школа для изучения священного писания, орудие массовой религиозной пропаганды в Англии

10.4

the village green — лужайка, на которой обычно происходят гулянья в английских деревнях

10.5

clinging the while to a pulley–swing handle — всё время держась за ручку блока

10.6

came in for considerable favour — пользовалась большим успехом

10.7

favours of ribbon — банты

10.8

Stop thief! — отсутствие артикля характерно для многих стереотипных выражений

10.9

“subsequent proceedings interested him no more” — цитата из юмористического стихотворения Брет–Гарта “The Society upon the Stanislaus”:

“And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,”

“And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.”

11.1

to furnish a clue — дать ключ к разгадке

11.2

tap (сокращ. tap–room) — бар (распивочная)

11.3

Stand clear. — Посторонись!

11.4

every one outside the Church — каждый человек не духовного звания

11.5

credited him with a knowledge of Greek and Hebrew originals — считал, что он может читать книги на греческом и древнееврейском языках.

11.6

stark (сокращ. вместо stark naked) — совершенно голый

12.1

summat — неправильно вместо something

12.2

thur (диал.)=sir

12.3

No! no, you don’t! (разг.) — Ну, нет, не удастся; «шалишь».

12.4

sotto voce [´sɔtou ´vout∫ι] (итал.) — вполголоса

12.5

I heerd’n (диал.) = I’ve heard him

12.6

by dumb show — жестами

12.7

like as not (простореч.) — возможно

12.8

The two were then kicked, knelt on, fallen over, and cursed by quite a number of over–hasty people. — Затем на них навалилась добрая дюжина спешно удиравших людей, которые топтали их ногами, придавливали коленями и проклинали. Типичное для английского языка употребление страдательного залога с рядом совершенно различных по характеру переходности глаголов (to curse, to kick — переходные; to kneel on, to fall over — косвенно переходные).

12.9

a white kilt that could only have passed muster in Greece — белая юбочка, которая могла бы сойти за одежду только в Греции (to pass muster — букв. быть признанным годным).

12.10

the best part of two hours — почти два часа

13.1

Bank Holiday — неприсутственный день для служащих в Англии. Здесь имеется в виду один из таких дней, следующий после Троицы.

13.2

to give smb. the slip (разг.) — улизнуть от кого–либо

13.3

if you don’t mind — зд. если не будешь слушаться

13.4

It’s all about. — зд. Это распространилось повсюду

13.5

Get on. — зд. Поторапливайся.

13.6

What do I make by it? (разг.) — Что я получу за это?

14.1

saving his regard — попросив у него извинения. Автор произвольно изменяет выражение saving your regard «с вашего разрешения», обычно употребляемое в прямой речи и со 2–м лицом.

14.2

Ostria — искажённое Austria

14.3

to be up to something (разг.) — затевать что–нибудь

14.4

Alteration (искажённое altercation) — ссора. Заглавные буквы здесь и ниже воспроизводят внешний вид газетных заголовков.

14.5

took a drop over and above — выпил лишнее

14.6

to go for (разг.) — напасть, наброситься на кого–нибудь

14.7

tremenjus — искажённое tremendous

14.8

hoax — выдумка, «утка»

14.9

son of an old boot — чёртов сын. Один из многочисленных вариантов ругательств со словом son.

14.10

the butterfly money — летающие (как бабочки) деньги

15.1

the fellowship of the Royal Society — звание члена Королевского общества (The Royal Society of London — старейшее научное общество в Англии, основанное в 1660 году)

15.2

what possesses people — что нашло на людей

15.3

to spurt — бежать из последних сил

15.4

to occult (редк.) — заслонить, скрыть из виду

15.5

by the man pounded — наречие by, вынесенное на первое место, делает фразу более динамичной

15.6

glairy foam — зд. густая пена

16.1

Burton — зд. сорт пива

16.2

in American — имеется в виду «с американским акцентом»

16.3

don’t you be in too muck hurry — не слишком–то спешите. Употребление личного местоимения 2–го лица в повелительном предложении делает приказание более выразительным.

16.4

I’m out o’frocks — я не маленький (букв. я больше не ношу детские платьица)

16.5

to star — треснуть (о стекле) (букв. пойти звёздами)

16.6

Four aces and the joker. — Четыре туза и джокер. Термины игры в покер, обозначающие выигрыш, победу.

17.1

What are the asses at now? — Что ещё там делают эти болваны?

17.2

threw it up (the window) — открыл окно (букв. поднял). В Англии распространены так называемые sash–windows, состоящие из 2–х рам, скользящих вверх и вниз, наподобие окон в железнодорожных вагонах.

17.3

a runaway ring — кто–то позвонил и убежал

17.4

the story he had been active to ridicule — история, которую он так высмеивал

17.5

University College — одно из отделений Лондонского университета

17.6

albino — альбинос, человек или животное, у которого отсутствует пигментация (окраска) кожи и волосяного покрова

17.7

This do? (разг.)=Will this do?

17.8

…to get something about me — зд. надеть что–нибудь на себя

17.9

nares=nostrils

17.10

a devilish scrape — чертовски затруднительное положение

17.11

The things I’ve been through! — Что я только пережил!

17.12

he was always casting about — он всё время подыскивал случай

18.1

larvæ, nauplii, tornarias (лат.) — названия простейших животных, обитателей морских глубин

18.2

cum grano (лат.) — сокращение латинского выражения cum grano salis, означающего «с оговоркой»; зд. не веря всерьёз

18.3

But when does the Tramp come in? (зд. разг.) — А причём здесь бродяга?

18.4

it reads like rage growing to mania — когда читаешь, то кажется, что это ярость, переходящяя в помешательство

18.5

even as — как раз когда

19.1

to be liable to (something) — быть подверженным (чему–либо)

19.2

I came on the stuff — я наткнулся на это

19.3

the refractive index of a substance — показатель преломления света (веществом)

19.4

Now you have me! (разг.) — Теперь вы меня понимаете.

19.5

Здесь would — модальный глагол, выражающий желание

19.6

You may well exclaim — Мне понятно ваше изумление

19.7

hemmed–in — во всём ограниченный

20.1

the current cant — общепринятое ханжество

20.2

I put it down to the general inanity of life — я объяснял это общей бессмысленностью жизни

20.3

the seethe of the radiant points — мерцание светящихся точек

20.4

to compass even the downfall of my father’s gray hairs — даже навлечь позор на седую голову отца. Выражение the downfall of my father’s gray hairs связано со словами из библии: “Then shall you bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.”

20.5

he might be liable — зд. его могли привлечь к ответственности (опущено: to persecution)

20.6

a house of call for letters of letters and parcels — контора по хранению писем и пакетов до востребования

20.7

like grim death — упорно. Устойчивое словосочетание

20.8

I was half–minded — у меня был соблазн

20.9

polyglot — зд. смешанный язык

20.10

appealed to — в подтверждение этого указывали на…

20.11

were nervous against my arrival — опасались моего прихода. Одно из значений against «в случае, если».

21.1

what I had done for myself — что я наделал

21.2

growing upon my attention — всё больше дававшие о себе знать

21.3

Mudie’s — библиотека в Лондоне

21.4

shaving… narrowly — зд. пройдя вплотную мимо

21.5

the Museum — зд. the British Museum

21.6

Salvatory Army — «Армия Спасения» — реакционная религиозно–благотворительная организация, созданная в Англии. Истинная её цель — отвлечение масс от классовой борьбы. Система построения носит полувоенный характер: офицеры (среди которых много женщин) имею чины и носят форму. Часто устраиваются шествия со знамёнами и оркестром, во время которых распевают церковные псалмы. В настоящее время эта организация является прямым проводником политики империализма.

21.7

saw my new footmarks flash into being — видели, как появлялись новые следы моих ног

21.8

Crusoe’s solitary discovery — Робинзон Крузо — герой одноимённого романа Дефо — не мог объяснить появление человеческих следов, которые он обнаружил на своём необитаемом острове.

22.1

to wich I am committed — на которую я обречён

22.2

to throw oneself upon somebody’s mercy — отдаться на чью–либо милость

22.3

Omniums — от латинского omnium «все»

22.4

I did not do badly — я неплохо устроился

22.5

the ugly little Jew of a landlord — эмфатическое определение. Первая часть the ugly little Jew служит определением к слову landlord. См. выше прим. 24 к гл. I

22.6

‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ — слова при отпевании покойника

22.7

hands — зд. работники

22.8

felt scared out of my wits — был напуган до потери рассудка

22.9

art pots — художественно разрисованные вазы

22.10

I fell to scheming — я начал строить планы

23.1

cab–rank — стоянка кэбов

23.2

Covent Garden Market — большой фруктовый, цветочный и овощной рынок в Лондоне

23.3

kicked the door to — закрыл дверь ногой

23.4

the house door — зд. дверь, ведущая во внутренние жилые помещения

23.5

such a man for shutting doors — …человека, который бы так старательно закрывал за собой двери. Ср. what a one he was for intellect «что за умница он был»

23.6

made no more ado — больше не церемонился

23.7

a Louis Quatorze vest — жилет времён Людовика XIV

23.8

to dance on the old strings — придерживаться устарелых взглядов (букв. плясать на старом канате)

23.9

a loose fit — велики (об одежде и обуви)

23.10

I went over the heads of the things a man reckons desirable. — Я перебрал в уме то, что обычно прельщает человека.

23.11

pride of place (библейск.) — высокое положение

23.12

when her name must needs be Delilah — когда она всё равно окажется Далилой. По библейской легенде, Далила, возлюбленная Самсона, выпытала у него секрет его необыкновенной физической силы и предала его в руки врагов. Наречие needs в сочетании с must означает «непременно», «обязательно». Это сочетание придаёт иронический характер высказыванию. См. the filthy brute must needs try to rob me «и надо же было этому грязному животному ограбить меня»

24.1

hangs up (разг.) — затрудняет

24.2

I have gone on vague lines — я действовал без определённого плана

24.3

the race — зд. the human race

24.4

the game’s up — дело проиграно; всё пропало

25.1

to beat — зд. обыскивать, «прочёсывать»

26.1

what his state of mind may have been — каково могло быть его душевное состояние. May (и must) + Perfect Infinitive выражает предположение, относящееся к прошлому. Вся глава, в которой автор высказывает свои предположения по поводу того, что произошло с Невидимкой, содержит много таких конструкций.

26.2

from human ken — из поля зрения людей

26.3

lodge gate — ворота имения; lodge — сторожка у въезда в парк или на территорию поместья

26.4

seem to bear on the matter — вероятно имеют отношение к этому событию

26.5

lifts the murder out of the realm of the absolutely wanton — делает это убийство не абсолютно бессмысленным (букв. выводит его из области бессмысленного)

26.6

unaccountably locomotive object — необъяснимо движущийся предмет

26.7

he would seem to have struck across the country — он вероятно пересёк эту местность. Здесь would seem является аналитической формой сослагательного наклонения и выражает предположительность действия.

27.1

what you stand to gain by it — что вы можете выгадать от этого; to stand to win (to lose) «иметь шансы за (против)»

27.2

there is nothing for it but… — ничего не остаётся, как

27.3

pillar–box — почтовый ящик в виде столбика (pillar), вделанного в тротуар и имеющего отверстие для писем. Этот тип почтового ящика очень распространён в Англии.

27.4

2d. — два пенса; d сокращ. denarius «динар», древнеримская монета

27.5

added a mental reservation — мысленно добавил оговорку

27.6

contra mundum (лат.) — против всего мира

27.7

followed Kemp’s profanity — выругался вслед за Кемпом

27.8

I have it! (разг.) — Я догадался!

27.9

went the way of its fellows — разделило судьбу остальных

27.10

ashamed of his momentary lapse from truthfulness — устыдившись своего минутного отступления от истины

27.11

stopped dead — остановился как вкопанный

27.12

Don’t push a winning game too far. — Не злоупотребляйте вашими преимуществами.

27.13

a Sidney Cooper — картина работы Сиднея Купера, английского художника (1803—1902), изображавшего преимущественно животных

28.1

he said he was damned — он выругался. Автор переводит в косвенную речь восклицание “I am damned”, которое обычно употребляется только в прямой речи, чем придаёт несколько иронический характер всей фразе.

28.2

it’s that Invisible Man brute — это этот зверь Невидимка; brute — приложение

28.3

with Mr. Heelas to think things like that was to act (ирон.) — стоило мистеру Хиласу подумать о чём–либо подобном, как он сразу начинал действовать (намёк на его трусость)

28.4

French window — внешняя стеклянная дверь, обычно ведущая в сад

28.5

the blistering fag end of the street — to blister букв. покрываться волдырями; здесь имеется в виду, что улица была раскопана; fag end of the street «конец улицы с более редкими домами»

28.6

Очевидно описываемая «конка» — трамвайный вагон с конной тягой.

28.7

Rugby football — рэгби, разновидность футбола, в которой разрешаются грубые приёмы игры

28.8

even as they stared — зд. у них на глазах (пока они смотрели)

Epilogue.1

to do smb. out of something (разг.) — отнять что–то у кого–либо

Epilogue.2

treasure trove — клад, принадлежащий неизвестному лицу и обнаруженный в земле. По английским законам клады, откопанные из–под земли, принадлежат государству, и сокрытие их карается законом.

Epilogue.3

put people on with the idea — внушил людям мысль

Epilogue.4

Cobbett, William (1762—1835) — английский политический деятель и публицист, мелкобуржуазный радикал