The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells (digital book reader .txt) 📕

THE EPILOGUE

I cannot but regret, now that I am concluding my story, how little

I am able to contribute to the discussion of the many debatable

questions which are still unsettled. In one respect I shall certainly

provoke criticism. My particular province is speculative philosophy.

My knowledge of comparative physiology is confined to a book or two,

but it seems to me that Carver’s suggestions as to the reason of the

rapid death of the Martians is so probable as to be regarded almost as

a proven conclusion. I have assumed that in the body of my narrative.

At any rate, in all the bodies of the Martians that were examined

after the war, no bacteria except those already known as terrestrial

species were found. That they did not bury any of their dead, and the

reckless slaughter they perpetrated, point also to an entire ignorance

of the putrefactive process. But probable as this seems, it is by no

means a proven conclusion.

Neither is the composition of the Black Smoke known, which the

Martians used with such deadly effect, and the generator of the Heat-Rays remains a puzzle. The terrible disasters at the Ealing and South

Kensington laboratories have disinclined analysts for further

investigations upon the latter. Spectrum analysis of the black powder

points unmistakably to the presence of an unknown element with a

brilliant group of three lines in the green, and it is possible that

it combines with argon to form a compound which acts at once with

deadly effect upon some constituent in the blood. But such unproven

speculations will scarcely be of interest to the general reader, to

whom this story is addressed. None of the brown scum that drifted

down the Thames after the destruction of Shepperton was examined at

the time, and now none is forthcoming.

The results of an anatomical examination of the Martians, so far

as the prowling dogs had left such an examination possible, I have

already given. But everyone is familiar with the magnificent and

almost complete specimen in spirits at the Natural History Museum, and

the countless drawings that have been made from it; and beyond that

the interest of their physiology and structure is purely scientific.

A question of graver and universal interest is the possibility of

another attack from the Martians. I do not think that nearly enough

attention is being given to this aspect of the matter. At present the

planet Mars is in conjunction, but with every return to opposition I,

for one, anticipate a renewal of their adventure. In any case, we

should be prepared. It seems to me that it should be possible to

define the position of the gun from which the shots are discharged, to

keep a sustained watch upon this part of the planet, and to anticipate

the arrival of the next attack.

In that case the cylinder might be destroyed with dynamite or

artillery before it was sufficiently cool for the Martians to emerge,

or they might be butchered by means of guns so soon as the screw

opened. It seems to me that they have lost a vast advantage in the

failure of their first surprise. Possibly they see it in the same

light.

Lessing has advanced excellent reasons for supposing that the

Martians have actually succeeded in effecting a landing on the planet

Venus. Seven months ago now, Venus and Mars were in alignment with

the sun; that is to say, Mars was in opposition from the point of view

of an observer on Venus. Subsequently a peculiar luminous and sinuous

marking appeared on the unillumined half of the inner planet, and

almost simultaneously a faint dark mark of a similar sinuous character

was detected upon a photograph of the Martian disk. One needs to see

the drawings of these appearances in order to appreciate fully their

remarkable resemblance in character.

At any rate, whether we expect another invasion or not, our views

of the human future must be greatly modified by these events. We have

learned now that we cannot regard this planet as being fenced in and a

secure abiding place for Man; we can never anticipate the unseen good

or evil that may come upon us suddenly out of space. It may be that

in the larger design of the universe this invasion from Mars is not

without its ultimate benefit for men; it has robbed us of that serene

confidence in the future which is the most fruitful source of

decadence, the gifts to human science it has brought are enormous, and

it has done much to promote the conception of the commonweal of

mankind. It may be that across the immensity of space the Martians

have watched the fate of these pioneers of theirs and learned their

lesson, and that on the planet Venus they have found a securer

settlement. Be that as it may, for many years yet there will

certainly be no relaxation of the eager scrutiny of the Martian disk,

and those fiery darts of the sky, the shooting stars, will bring with

them as they fall an unavoidable apprehension to all the sons of men.

The broadening of men’s views that has resulted can scarcely be

exaggerated. Before the cylinder fell there was a general persuasion

that through all the deep of space no life existed beyond the petty

surface of our minute sphere. Now we see further. If the Martians can

reach Venus, there is no reason to suppose that the thing is

impossible for men, and when the slow cooling of the sun makes this

earth uninhabitable, as at last it must do, it may be that the thread

of life that has begun here will have streamed out and caught our

sister planet within its toils.

Dim and wonderful is the vision I have conjured up in my mind of

life spreading slowly from this little seed bed of the solar system

throughout the inanimate vastness of sidereal space. But that is a

remote dream. It may be, on the other hand, that the destruction of

the Martians is only a reprieve. To them, and not to us, perhaps, is

the future ordained.

I must confess the stress and danger of the time have left an

abiding sense of doubt and insecurity in my mind. I sit in my study

writing by lamplight, and suddenly I see again the healing valley

below set with writhing flames, and feel the house behind and about me

empty and desolate. I go out into the Byfleet Road, and vehicles pass

me, a butcher boy in a cart, a cabful of visitors, a workman on a

bicycle, children going to school, and suddenly they become vague and

unreal, and I hurry again with the artilleryman through the hot,

brooding silence. Of a night I see the black powder darkening the

silent streets, and the contorted bodies shrouded in that layer; they

rise upon me tattered and dog-bitten. They gibber and grow fiercer,

paler, uglier, mad distortions of humanity at last, and I wake, cold

and wretched, in the darkness of the night.

I go to London and see the busy multitudes in Fleet Street and the

Strand, and it comes across my mind that they are but the ghosts of

the past, haunting the streets that I have seen silent and wretched,

going to and fro, phantasms in a dead city, the mockery of life in a

galvanised body. And strange, too, it is to stand on Primrose Hill,

as I did but a day before writing this last chapter, to see the great

province of houses, dim and blue through the haze of the smoke and

mist, vanishing at last into the vague lower sky, to see the people

walking to and fro among the flower beds on the hill, to see the

sight-seers about the Martian machine that stands there still, to hear

the tumult of playing children, and to recall the time when I saw it

all bright and clear-cut, hard and silent, under the dawn of that last

great day… .

And strangest of all is it to hold my wife’s hand again, and to think

that I have counted her, and that she has counted me, among the dead.

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells