Selected Stories of H. G. Wells

by H. G. Wells

  Then presently, when he was surer these spider swarms could not drop into the ravine, he found a place where he could sit down, and sat and fell into deep thought and began after his manner to gnaw his knuckles and bite his nails. And from this he was moved by the coming of the man with the white horse.

  He heard him long before he saw him, as a clattering of hoofs, stumbling footsteps, and a reassuring voice. Then the little man appeared, a rueful figure, still with a tail of white cobweb trailing behind him. They approached each other without speaking, without a salutation. The little man was fatigued and shamed to the pitch of hopeless bitterness, and came to a stop at last, face to face with his seated master. The latter winced a little under his dependant’s eye. “Well?” he said at last, with no pretence of authority.

  “You left him?”

  “My horse bolted.”

  “I know. So did mine.”

  He laughed at his master mirthlessly.

  “I say my horse bolted,” said the man who once had a silver-studded bridle.

  “Cowards both,” said the little man.

  The other gnawed his knuckle through some meditative moments, with his eye on his inferior.

  “Don’t call me a coward,” he said at length.

  “You are a coward like myself.”

  “A coward possibly. There is a limit beyond which every man must fear. That I have learnt at last. But not like yourself. That is where the difference comes in.”

  “I never could have dreamt you would have left him. He saved your life two minutes before… Why are you our lord?”

  The master gnawed his knuckles again, and his countenance was dark.

  “No man calls me a coward,” he said. “No… A broken sword is better than none… One spavined white horse cannot be expected to carry two men a four days’ journey. I hate white horses, but this time it cannot be helped. You begin to understand me?… I perceive that you are minded, on the strength of what you have seen and fancy, to taint my reputation. It is men of your sort who unmake kings. Besides which—I never liked you.”

  “My lord!” said the little man.

  “No,” said the master. “No!”

  He stood up sharply as the little man moved. For a minute perhaps they faced one another. Overhead the spiders’ balls went driving. There was a quick movement among the pebbles; a running of feet, a cry of despair, a gasp and a blow…

  Towards nightfall the wind fell. The sun set in a calm serenity, and the man who had once possessed the silver bridle came at last very cautiously and by an easy slope out of the ravine again; but now he led the white horse that once belonged to the little man. He would have gone back to his horse to get his silver-mounted bridle again, but he feared night and a quickening breeze might still find him in the valley, and besides he disliked greatly to think he might discover his horse all swathed in cobwebs and perhaps unpleasantly eaten.

  And as he thought of those cobwebs and of all the dangers he had been through, and the manner in which he had been preserved that day, his hand sought a little reliquary that hung about his neck, and he clasped it for a moment with heartfelt gratitude. As he did so his eyes went across the valley.

  “I was hot with passion,” he said, “and now she has met her reward. They also, no doubt—”

  And behold! Far away out of the wooded slopes across the valley, but in the clearness of the sunset distinct and unmistakable, he saw a little spire of smoke.

  At that his expression of serene resignation changed to an amazed anger. Smoke? He turned the head of the white horse about, and hesitated. And as he did so a little rustle of air went through the grass about him. Far away upon some reeds swayed a tattered sheet of grey. He looked at the cobwebs; he looked at the smoke.

  “Perhaps, after all, it is not them,” he said at last.

  But he knew better.

  After he had stared at the smoke for some time, he mounted the white horse.

  As he rode, he picked his way amidst stranded masses of web. For some reason there were many dead spiders on the ground, and those that lived feasted guiltily on their fellows. At the sound of his horse’s hoofs they fled.

  Their time had passed. From the ground, without either a wind to carry them or a winding sheet ready, these things, for all their poison, could do him no evil.

  He flicked with his belt at those he fancied came too near. Once, where a number ran together over a bare place, he was minded to dismount and trample them with his boots, but this impulse he overcame. Ever and again he returned in his saddle, and looked back at the smoke.

  “Spiders,” he muttered over and over again. “Spiders! Well, well… The next time I must spin a web.”

  PART FOUR

  FANTASIES

  INTRODUCTION

  Fantasy is the aged aunt, science fiction is the up-to-date nephew who shows Auntie how to do email. Science fiction explains its wonders, rationalizes them, and shows effect following from cause, because its daddy is Realism. Aunt Fantasy doesn’t give a hoot. For all she cares, cause follows from effect. She tells her impossible tales shamelessly, knowing she has reasons that reason knows not of.

  Young H. G. Wells took the nephew around town, got to know him well, and in fact showed him the ropes and gave him a good start in life. But Wells was familiar also with Auntie and her great old house set in its immense garden, which you enter by a door in a wall, and whose forking paths lead back and back through time to the world outside time.

  Five of the six fantasies in this section can be related to old tales or traditions of folklore and myth, the stories we tell over and over in every language, changing their clothes and props as the ages change.

  Fantasy of course includes ghosts and nightmares of all kinds. “The Story of the Late Mr. Elvesham” might well have gone with the Horror Stories, but I put it here because its aim seems less to gross out the reader than to explore metaphorically a fear we all have, a horror that happens to everybody. Its relation to Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Gray is interesting and probably purely coincidental.

  Wells called “The Man Who Could Work Miracles” a “Pantoum in Prose.” A pantoum is a highly repetitive poetic form that ends up, in a sense, where it began, which gives us the cue. Otherwise, this funny romp of a story is a kind of cosmic enlargement of the folktale about the man who gets three wishes, and wishes for sausages, and his wife scolds him so hard for wasting a wish on something so stupid that he wishes the sausages were stuck on the end of her nose, and then…

  “The Magic Shop” is an endearing story told in a rather gentler tone than Wells mostly used. How many fantasies have their beginning in a shop, a little shop, with an odd shopkeeper, and something odd for sale? It is almost a genre in itself.

  The tale of Mr. Skelmersdale is a riff on the ballad of Tam Lin, the man stolen away by the Fair Folk, a story that seems to lie very deep in the English imagination. Told lamely and inarticulately by the ordinary young man who keeps the general store in a village, it gains a particular poignancy, showing a deep strangeness in the heart of the commonplace, glimpsed, and irrecoverably lost.

  The yearning for another world, barely seen and then lost, comes up again and again in Wells’s fiction, never more explicitly than in “The Door in the Wall.” Is that other, sweeter world real or unreal? Is it unattainable, or just on the other side of a door we can open if we choose?

  The last story of this group, “The Presence by the Fire,” is a kind of antifantasy or lament for the death of a fantasy. It draws, briefly and with the simplest means, a vivid picture of grief and the loss of consolation.

  THE STORY OF THE LATE MR. ELVESHAM

  I set this story down, not expecting it will be believed, but, if possible, to prepare a way of escape for the next victim. He perhaps may profit by my misfortune. My own case, I know, is hopeless, and I am now in some measure prepared to meet my fate.

  My name is Edward George Eden. I was born at Trentham, in Staffordshire, my father being employed in the gardens ther
e. I lost my mother when I was three years old and my father when I was five, my uncle, George Eden, then adopting me as his own son. He was a single man, self-educated, and well-known in Birmingham as an enterprising journalist; he educated me generously, fired my ambition to succeed in the world, and at his death, which happened four years ago, left me his entire fortune, a matter of about five hundred pounds after all outgoing charges were paid. I was then eighteen. He advised me in his will to expend the money in completing my education. I had already chosen the profession of medicine, and through his posthumous generosity, and my good fortune in a scholarship competition, I became a medical student at University College, London. At the time of the beginning of my story I lodged at 11A University Street, in a little upper room, very shabbily furnished, and draughty, overlooking the back of Shoolbred’s premises. I used this little room both to live in and sleep in, because I was anxious to eke out my means to the very last shillingsworth.

  I was taking a pair of shoes to be mended at a shop in the Tottenham Court Road when I first encountered the little old man with the yellow face, with whom my life has now become so inextricably entangled. He was standing on the kerb, and staring at the number on the door in a doubtful way, as I opened it. His eyes—they were dull grey eyes, and reddish under the rims—fell to my face, and his countenance immediately assumed an expression of corrugated amiability.

  “You come,” he said, “apt to the moment. I had forgotten the number of your house. How do you do, Mr. Eden?”

  I was a little astonished at his familiar address, for I had never set eyes on the man before. I was annoyed, too, at his catching me with my boots under my arm. He noticed my lack of cordiality.

  “Wonder who the deuce I am, eh? A friend, let me assure you. I have seen you before, though you haven’t seen me. Is there anywhere where I can talk to you?”

  I hesitated. The shabbiness of my room upstairs was not a matter for every stranger. “Perhaps,” said I, “we might walk down the street. I’m unfortunately prevented—” My gesture explained the sentence before I had spoken it.

  “The very thing,” he said, and faced this way and then that. “The street? Which way shall we go?” I slipped my boots down in the passage. “Look here!” he said abruptly; “this business of mine is a rigmarole. Come and lunch with me, Mr. Eden. I’m an old man, a very old man, and not good at explanations, and what with my piping voice and the clatter of the traffic—”

  He laid a persuasive skinny hand that trembled a little upon my arm.

  I was not so old that an old man might not treat me to a lunch. Yet at the same time I was not altogether pleased by this abrupt invitation. “I had rather—” I began. “But I had rather,” he said, catching me up, “and a certain civility is surely due to my grey hairs.” And so I consented, and went away with him.

  He took me to Blavitski’s; I had to walk slowly to accommodate myself to his paces; and over such a lunch as I had never tasted before, he fended off my leading questions, and I took a better note of his appearance. His clean-shaven face was lean and wrinkled, his shrivelled lips fell over a set of false teeth, and his white hair was thin and rather long; he seemed small to me—though, indeed, most people seemed small to me—and his shoulders were rounded and bent. And, watching him, I could not help but observe that he too was taking note of me, running his eyes, with a curious touch of greed in them, over me from my broad shoulders to my sun-tanned hands and up to my freckled face again. “And now,” said he, as we lit our cigarettes, “I must tell you of the business in hand.

  “I must tell you, then, that I am an old man, a very old man.” He paused momentarily. “And it happens that I have money that I must presently be leaving, and never a child have I to leave it to.” I thought of the confidence trick, and resolved I would be on the alert for the vestiges of my five hundred pounds. He proceeded to enlarge on his loneliness, and the trouble he had to find a proper disposition of his money. “I have weighed this plan and that plan, charities, institutions, and scholarships, and libraries, and I have come to this conclusion at last,”—he fixed his eyes on my face,—“that I will find some young fellow, ambitious, pure-minded, and poor, healthy in body and healthy in mind, and, in short, make him my heir, give him all that I have.” He repeated, “Give him all that I have. So that he will suddenly be lifted out of all the trouble and struggle in which his sympathies have been educated, to freedom and influence.”

  I tried to seem disinterested. With a transparent hypocrisy, I said, “And you want my help, my professional services maybe, to find that person.”

  He smiled and looked at me over his cigarette, and I laughed at his quiet exposure of my modest pretence.

  “What a career such a man might have!” he said. “It fills me with envy to think how I have accumulated that another man may spend—

  “But there are conditions, of course, burdens to be imposed. He must, for instance, take my name. You cannot expect everything without some return. And I must go into all the circumstances of his life before I can accept him. He must be sound. I must know his heredity, how his parents and grandparents died, have the strictest inquiries made into his private morals—”

  This modified my secret congratulations a little. “And do I understand,” said I, “that I—?”

  “Yes,” he said, almost fiercely. “You. You. ”

  I answered never a word. My imagination was dancing wildly, my innate scepticism was useless to modify its transports. There was not a particle of gratitude in my mind—I did not know what to say nor how to say it. “But why me in particular?” I said at last.

  He had chanced to hear of me from Professor Haslar, he said, as a typically sound and sane young man, and he wished, as far as possible, to leave his money where health and integrity were assured.

  That was my first meeting with the little old man. He was mysterious about himself; he would not give his name yet, he said, and after I had answered some questions of his, he left me at the Blavitski portal. I noticed that he drew a handful of gold coins from his pocket when it came to paying for the lunch. His insistence upon bodily health was curious. In accordance with an arrangement we had made I applied that day for a life policy in the Loyal Insurance Company for a large sum, and I was exhaustively overhauled by the medical advisers of that company in the subsequent week. Even that did not satisfy him, and he insisted I must be re-examined by the great Doctor Henderson. It was Friday in Whitsun week before he came to a decision. He called me down quite late in the evening,—nearly nine it was,—from cramming chemical equations for my Preliminary Scientific examinations. He was standing in the passage under the feeble gas-lamp, and his face was a grotesque interplay of shadows. He seemed more bowed than when I had first seen him, and his cheeks had sunk in a little.

  His voice shook with emotion. “Everything is satisfactory, Mr. Eden,” he said. “Everything is quite, quite satisfactory. And this night of all nights, you must dine with me and celebrate your—accession.” He was interrupted by a cough. “You won’t have long to wait, either,” he said, wiping his handkerchief across his lips, and gripping my hand with his long bony claw that was disengaged. “Certainly not very long to wait.”

  We went into the street and called a cab. I remember every incident of that drive vividly, the swift, easy motion, the contrast of gas and oil and electric light, the crowds of people in the streets, the place in Regent Street to which we went, and the sumptuous dinner we were served with there. I was disconcerted at first by the well-dressed waiter’s glances at my rough clothes, bothered by the stones of the olives, but as the champagne warmed my blood, my confidence revived. At first the old man talked of himself. He had already told me his name in the cab; he was Egbert Elvesham, the great philosopher, whose name I had known since I was a lad at school. It seemed incredible to me that this man, whose intelligence had so early dominated mine, this great abstraction, should suddenly realise itself as this decrepit, familiar figure. I dare say every young fellow who had su
ddenly fallen among celebrities has felt something of my disappointment. He told me now of the future that the feeble streams of his life would presently leave dry for me, houses, copyrights, investments; I had never suspected that philosophers were so rich. He watched me drink and eat with a touch of envy. “What a capacity for living you have!” he said; and then, with a sigh, a sigh of relief I could have thought it, “It will not be long.”

  “Ay,” said I, my head swimming now with champagne; “I have a future perhaps—of a fairly agreeable sort, thanks to you. I shall now have the honour of your name. But you have a past. Such a past as is worth all my future.”

  He shook his head and smiled, as I thought with half-sad appreciation of my flattering admiration. “That future,” he said; “would you in truth change it?” The waiter came with liqueurs. “You will not perhaps mind taking my name, taking my position, but would you indeed— willingly—take my years?”

  “With your achievements,” said I gallantly.

  He smiled again. “Kümmel—both,” he said to the waiter, and turned his attention to a little paper packet he had taken from his pocket. “This hour,” said he, “this after-dinner hour is the hour of small things. Here is a scrap of my unpublished wisdom.” He opened the packet with his shaking yellow fingers, and showed a little pinkish powder on the paper. “This,” said he—“well, you must guess what it is. But Kümmel—put but a dash of this powder in it—is Himmel.” His large greyish eyes watched mine with an inscrutable expression.

  It was a bit of a shock to me to find this great teacher gave his mind to the flavour of liqueurs. However, I feigned a great interest in his weakness, for I was drunk enough for such small sycophancy.

  He parted the powder between the little glasses, and rising suddenly with a strange unexpected dignity, held out his hand towards me. I imitated his action, and the glasses rang. “To a quick succession,” said he, and raised his glass towards his lips.