Війна світів
How I Reached Home
Aheadroseoverthearch,andthefigureofaworkmancarryingabasketappeared. Besidehimranalittleboy. Hepassedme,wishingmegoodnight. Iwasmindedtospeaktohim,butdidnot. Iansweredhisgreetingwithameaninglessmumbleandwentonoverthebridge.
OvertheMayburyarchatrain,abillowingtumultofwhite,firelitsmoke,andalongcaterpillaroflightedwindows,wentflyingsouth—clatter,clatter,clap,rap,andithadgone. AdimgroupofpeopletalkedinthegateofoneofthehousesintheprettylittlerowofgablesthatwascalledOrientalTerrace. Itwasallsorealandsofamiliar. Andthatbehindme! Itwasfrantic,fantastic! Suchthings,Itoldmyself,couldnotbe.
PerhapsIamamanofexceptionalmoods.Idonotknowhowfarmyexperienceiscommon. AttimesIsufferfromthestrangestsenseofdetachmentfrommyselfandtheworldaboutme; Iseemtowatchitallfromtheoutside,fromsomewhereinconceivablyremote,outoftime,outofspace,outofthestressandtragedyofitall. Thisfeelingwasverystronguponmethatnight. Herewasanothersidetomydream.
Butthetroublewastheblankincongruityofthisserenityandtheswiftdeathflyingyonder,nottwomilesaway. Therewasanoiseofbusinessfromthegasworks,andtheelectriclampswereallalight. Istoppedatthegroupofpeople.
"Whatnewsfromthecommon?"saidI.
Thereweretwomenandawomanatthegate.
"Eh?"saidoneofthemen,turning.
