Війна світів
The Death of the Curate
SlowlyIbegantorealisethecompleteoverthrowofhisintelligence,toperceivethatmysolecompanioninthiscloseandsicklydarknesswasamaninsane.
FromcertainvaguememoriesIaminclinedtothinkmyownmindwanderedattimes. IhadstrangeandhideousdreamswheneverIslept. Itsoundsparadoxical,butIaminclinedtothinkthattheweaknessandinsanityofthecuratewarnedme,bracedme,andkeptmeasaneman.
Ontheeighthdayhebegantotalkaloudinsteadofwhispering,andnothingIcoulddowouldmoderatehisspeech.
"Itisjust,OGod!"hewouldsay,overandoveragain."Itisjust. Onmeandminebethepunishmentlaid. Wehavesinned,wehavefallenshort. Therewaspoverty,sorrow;thepoorweretroddeninthedust,andIheldmypeace. Ipreachedacceptablefolly—myGod,whatfolly! —whenIshouldhavestoodup,thoughIdiedforit,andcalleduponthemtorepent-repent!... Oppressorsofthepoorandneedy... ThewinepressofGod!"
ThenhewouldsuddenlyreverttothematterofthefoodIwithheldfromhim,praying,begging,weeping,atlastthreatening. Hebegantoraisehisvoice—Iprayedhimnotto. Heperceivedaholdonme—hethreatenedhewouldshoutandbringtheMartiansuponus. Foratimethatscaredme;butanyconcessionwouldhaveshortenedourchanceofescapebeyondestimating. Idefiedhim,althoughIfeltnoassurancethathemightnotdothisthing. Butthatday,atanyrate,hedidnot. Hetalkedwithhisvoicerisingslowly,throughthegreaterpartoftheeighthandninthdays—threats,entreaties,mingledwithatorrentofhalf-saneandalwaysfrothyrepentanceforhisvacantshamofGod’sservice, suchasmademepityhim.
