The War of the Worlds

H. G. Wells

The War of the Worlds (1898)

Este livro, intitulado A Guerra dos Mundos em português, é o título mais conhecido de H. G. Wells, certamente devendo mais a sua celebridade às inúmeras adaptações que sofreu do que à leitura da obra escrita. A primeira vez que dele tive conhecimento foi, creio, num filme passado na televisão, onde se contava como Orson Welles espalhou o pânico com a sua adaptação radiofónica de 1938.

A história, toda a gente a conhece, trata de uma invasão de marcianos que, armados de tecnologia superior, levam a cabo uma destruição inaudita em Londres e arrabaldes, acabando derrotados pela vida microbiana, contra a qual não estavam preparados.

A ameaça extraterrestre, tema que marcou uma época na literatura FC, terá começado aqui. Nas últimas décadas, um novo entendimento defende que, se uma civilização conseguir um tal avanço tecnológico que lhe permita viajar entre as estrelas (Marte já estava então descartado da possibilidade de albergar vida inteligente), deverá ter uma evolução ética correspondente, que a impeça de fazer a guerra a outras civilizações que encontre... Um pacifismo, sinal dos nossos tempos, que apenas reconhece a sua ética, validada na projecção antropomórfica de um ser humano de sentido único, que não passa de uma construção baseada num desejo. Como explicou Stanislaw Lem em Solaris, a motivação de uma mente alienígena poderá estar muito para além da compreensão humana. E, regressando a The War of the Worlds, é-nos explicado que os marcianos se encontravam em risco de extinção no seu planeta moribundo; a invasão era, para eles, uma questão de vida ou morte.

Suddenly I heard a noise without, the run and smash of slipping plaster, and the triangular aperture in the wall was darkened. I looked up and saw the lower surface of a handling-machine coming slowly across the hole. One of its gripping limbs curled amid the debris; another limb appeared, feeling its way over the fallen beams. I stood petrified, staring. Then I saw through a sort of glass plate near the edge of the body the face, as we may call it, and the large dark eyes of a Martian, peering, and then a long metallic snake of tentacle came feeling slowly through the hole.

I turned by an effort, stumbled over the curate, and stopped at the scullery door. The tentacle was now some way, two yards or more, in the room, and twisting and turning, with queer sudden movements, this way and that. For a while I stood fascinated by that slow, fitful advance. Then, with a faint, hoarse cry, I forced myself across the scullery. I trembled violently; I could scarcely stand upright. I opened the door of the coal cellar, and stood there in the darkness staring at the faintly lit doorway into the kitchen, and listening. Had the Martian seen me? What was it doing now?

Something was moving to and fro there, very quietly; every now and then it tapped against the wall, or started on its movements with a faint metallic ringing, like the movements of keys on a split-ring. Then a heavy body—I knew too well what—was dragged across the floor of the kitchen towards the opening. Irresistibly attracted, I crept to the door and peeped into the kitchen. In the triangle of bright outer sunlight I saw the Martian, in its Briareus of a handling-machine, scrutinizing the curate's head. I thought at once that it would infer my presence from the mark of the blow I had given him.

I crept back to the coal cellar, shut the door, and began to cover myself up as much as I could, and as noiselessly as possible in the darkness, among the firewood and coal therein. Every now and then I paused, rigid, to hear if the Martian had thrust its tentacles through the opening again.

Then the faint metallic jingle returned. I traced it slowly feeling over the kitchen. Presently I heard it nearer—in the scullery, as I judged. I thought that its length might be insufficient to reach me. I prayed copiously. It passed, scraping faintly across the cellar door. An age of almost intolerable suspense intervened; then I heard it fumbling at the latch! It had found the door! The Martians understood doors!

It worried at the catch for a minute, perhaps, and then the door opened.

In the darkness I could just see the thing—like an elephant's trunk more than anything else—waving towards me and touching and examining the wall, coals, wood and ceiling. It was like a black worm swaying its blind head to and fro.

Once, even, it touched the heel of my boot. I was on the verge of screaming; I bit my hand. For a time the tentacle was silent. I could have fancied it had been withdrawn. Presently, with an abrupt click, it gripped something—I thought it had me!—and seemed to go out of the cellar again. For a minute I was not sure. Apparently it had taken a lump of coal to examine.

I seized the opportunity of slightly shifting my position, which had become cramped, and then listened. I whispered passionate prayers for safety.

Then I heard the slow, deliberate sound creeping towards me again. Slowly, slowly it drew near, scratching against the walls and tapping the furniture.

While I was still doubtful, it rapped smartly against the cellar door and closed it. I heard it go into the pantry, and the biscuit-tins rattled and a bottle smashed, and then came a heavy bump against the cellar door. Then silence that passed into an infinity of suspense.

Had it gone?

At last I decided that it had.

Li anteriormente:

The Invisible Man (1897)

The Island of Doctor Moreau (1896)

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