-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Герберт Уеллс
-
- Война миров
-
- Стр. 97/99
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
So
many
people
were
abroad
everywhere
,
busied
in
a
thousand
activities
,
that
it
seemed
incredible
that
any
great
proportion
of
the
population
could
have
been
slain
.
But
then
I
noticed
how
yellow
were
the
skins
of
the
people
I
met
,
how
shaggy
the
hair
of
the
men
,
how
large
and
bright
their
eyes
,
and
that
every
other
man
still
wore
his
dirty
rags
.
Their
faces
seemed
all
with
one
of
two
expressions
--
a
leaping
exultation
and
energy
or
a
grim
resolution
.
Save
for
the
expression
of
the
faces
,
London
seemed
a
city
of
tramps
.
The
vestries
were
indiscriminately
distributing
bread
sent
us
by
the
French
government
.
The
ribs
of
the
few
horses
showed
dismally
.
Haggard
special
constables
with
white
badges
stood
at
the
corners
of
every
street
.
I
saw
little
of
the
mischief
wrought
by
the
Martians
until
I
reached
Wellington
Street
,
and
there
I
saw
the
red
weed
clambering
over
the
buttresses
of
Waterloo
Bridge
.
At
the
corner
of
the
bridge
,
too
,
I
saw
one
of
the
common
contrasts
of
that
grotesque
time
--
a
sheet
of
paper
flaunting
against
a
thicket
of
the
red
weed
,
transfixed
by
a
stick
that
kept
it
in
place
.
It
was
the
placard
of
the
first
newspaper
to
resume
publication
--
the
Daily
Mail
.
I
bought
a
copy
for
a
blackened
shilling
I
found
in
my
pocket
.
Most
of
it
was
in
blank
,
but
the
solitary
compositor
who
did
the
thing
had
amused
himself
by
making
a
grotesque
scheme
of
advertisement
stereo
on
the
back
page
.
The
matter
he
printed
was
emotional
;
the
news
organisation
had
not
as
yet
found
its
way
back
.
I
learned
nothing
fresh
except
that
already
in
one
week
the
examination
of
the
Martian
mechanisms
had
yielded
astonishing
results
.
Among
other
things
,
the
article
assured
me
what
I
did
not
believe
at
the
time
,
that
the
"
Secret
of
Flying
,
"
was
discovered
.
At
Waterloo
I
found
the
free
trains
that
were
taking
people
to
their
homes
.
The
first
rush
was
already
over
.
There
were
few
people
in
the
train
,
and
I
was
in
no
mood
for
casual
conversation
.
I
got
a
compartment
to
myself
,
and
sat
with
folded
arms
,
looking
greyly
at
the
sunlit
devastation
that
flowed
past
the
windows
.
And
just
outside
the
terminus
the
train
jolted
over
temporary
rails
,
and
on
either
side
of
the
railway
the
houses
were
blackened
ruins
.
To
Clapham
Junction
the
face
of
London
was
grimy
with
powder
of
the
Black
Smoke
,
in
spite
of
two
days
of
thunderstorms
and
rain
,
and
at
Clapham
Junction
the
line
had
been
wrecked
again
;
there
were
hundreds
of
out-of-work
clerks
and
shopmen
working
side
by
side
with
the
customary
navvies
,
and
we
were
jolted
over
a
hasty
relaying
.
All
down
the
line
from
there
the
aspect
of
the
country
was
gaunt
and
unfamiliar
;
Wimbledon
particularly
had
suffered
.
Walton
,
by
virtue
of
its
unburned
pine
woods
,
seemed
the
least
hurt
of
any
place
along
the
line
.
The
Wandle
,
the
Mole
,
every
little
stream
,
was
a
heaped
mass
of
red
weed
,
in
appearance
between
butcher
's
meat
and
pickled
cabbage
.
The
Surrey
pine
woods
were
too
dry
,
however
,
for
the
festoons
of
the
red
climber
.
Beyond
Wimbledon
,
within
sight
of
the
line
,
in
certain
nursery
grounds
,
were
the
heaped
masses
of
earth
about
the
sixth
cylinder
.
A
number
of
people
were
standing
about
it
,
and
some
sappers
were
busy
in
the
midst
of
it
.
Over
it
flaunted
a
Union
Jack
,
flapping
cheerfully
in
the
morning
breeze
.
The
nursery
grounds
were
everywhere
crimson
with
the
weed
,
a
wide
expanse
of
livid
colour
cut
with
purple
shadows
,
and
very
painful
to
the
eye
.
One
's
gaze
went
with
infinite
relief
from
the
scorched
greys
and
sullen
reds
of
the
foreground
to
the
blue-green
softness
of
the
eastward
hills
.
The
line
on
the
London
side
of
Woking
station
was
still
undergoing
repair
,
so
I
descended
at
Byfleet
station
and
took
the
road
to
Maybury
,
past
the
place
where
I
and
the
artilleryman
had
talked
to
the
hussars
,
and
on
by
the
spot
where
the
Martian
had
appeared
to
me
in
the
thunderstorm
.
Here
,
moved
by
curiosity
,
I
turned
aside
to
find
,
among
a
tangle
of
red
fronds
,
the
warped
and
broken
dog
cart
with
the
whitened
bones
of
the
horse
scattered
and
gnawed
.
For
a
time
I
stood
regarding
these
vestiges
...
.
Then
I
returned
through
the
pine
wood
,
neck-high
with
red
weed
here
and
there
,
to
find
the
landlord
of
the
Spotted
Dog
had
already
found
burial
,
and
so
came
home
past
the
College
Arms
.
A
man
standing
at
an
open
cottage
door
greeted
me
by
name
as
I
passed
.
I
looked
at
my
house
with
a
quick
flash
of
hope
that
faded
immediately
.
The
door
had
been
forced
;
it
was
unfast
and
was
opening
slowly
as
I
approached
.
It
slammed
again
.
The
curtains
of
my
study
fluttered
out
of
the
open
window
from
which
I
and
the
artilleryman
had
watched
the
dawn
.
No
one
had
closed
it
since
.
The
smashed
bushes
were
just
as
I
had
left
them
nearly
four
weeks
ago
.
I
stumbled
into
the
hall
,
and
the
house
felt
empty
.
The
stair
carpet
was
ruffled
and
discoloured
where
I
had
crouched
,
soaked
to
the
skin
from
the
thunderstorm
the
night
of
the
catastrophe
.
Our
muddy
footsteps
I
saw
still
went
up
the
stairs
.
I
followed
them
to
my
study
,
and
found
lying
on
my
writing-table
still
,
with
the
selenite
paper
weight
upon
it
,
the
sheet
of
work
I
had
left
on
the
afternoon
of
the
opening
of
the
cylinder
.
For
a
space
I
stood
reading
over
my
abandoned
arguments
.
It
was
a
paper
on
the
probable
development
of
Moral
Ideas
with
the
development
of
the
civilising
process
;
and
the
last
sentence
was
the
opening
of
a
prophecy
:
"
In
about
two
hundred
years
,
"
I
had
written
,
"
we
may
expect
--
--
"
