by H. G. Wells
CHAPTER I
INSOMNIA
One afternoon, at low water, Mr. Isbister, a young artist lodging atBoscastle, walked from that place to the picturesque cove of Pentargen,desiring to examine the caves there. Halfway down the precipitous path tothe Pentargen beach he came suddenly upon a man sitting in an attitude ofprofound distress beneath a projecting mass of rock. The hands of thisman hung limply over his knees, his eyes were red and staring before him,and his face was wet with tears.
He glanced round at Isbister's footfall. Both men were disconcerted,Isbister the more so, and, to override the awkwardness of his involuntarypause, he remarked, with an air of mature conviction, that the weatherwas hot for the time of year.
"Very," answered the stranger shortly, hesitated a second, and added in acolourless tone, "I can't sleep."
Isbister stopped abruptly. "No?" was all he said, but his bearingconveyed his helpful impulse.
"It may sound incredible," said the stranger, turning weary eyes toIsbister's face and emphasizing his words with a languid hand, "but Ihave had no sleep--no sleep at all for six nights."
"Had advice?"
"Yes. Bad advice for the most part. Drugs. My nervous system.... They areall very well for the run of people. It's hard to explain. I dare nottake ... sufficiently powerful drugs."
"That makes it difficult," said Isbister.
He stood helplessly in the narrow path, perplexed what to do. Clearly theman wanted to talk. An idea natural enough under the circumstances,prompted him to keep the conversation going. "I've never suffered fromsleeplessness myself," he said in a tone of commonplace gossip, "but inthose cases I have known, people have usually found something--"
"I dare make no experiments."
He spoke wearily. He gave a gesture of rejection, and for a space bothmen were silent.
"Exercise?" suggested Isbister diffidently, with a glance from hisinterlocutor's face of wretchedness to the touring costume he wore.
"That is what I have tried. Unwisely perhaps. I have followed the coast,day after day--from New Quay. It has only added muscular fatigue to themental. The cause of this unrest was overwork--trouble. There wassomething--"
He stopped as if from sheer fatigue. He rubbed his forehead with a leanhand. He resumed speech like one who talks to himself.
"I am a lone wolf, a solitary man, wandering through a world in which Ihave no part. I am wifeless--childless--who is it speaks of the childlessas the dead twigs on the tree of life? I am wifeless, childless--I couldfind no duty to do. No desire even in my heart. One thing at last I setmyself to do.
"I said, I _will_ do this, and to do it, to overcome the inertia of thisdull body, I resorted to drugs. Great God, I've had enough of drugs! Idon't know if _you_ feel the heavy inconvenience of the body, itsexasperating demand of time from the mind--time--life! Live! We only livein patches. We have to eat, and then comes the dull digestivecomplacencies--or irritations. We have to take the air or else ourthoughts grow sluggish, stupid, run into gulfs and blind alleys. Athousand distractions arise from within and without, and then comesdrowsiness and sleep. Men seem to live for sleep. How little of a man'sday is his own--even at the best! And then come those false friends,those Thug helpers, the alkaloids that stifle natural fatigue and killrest--black coffee, cocaine--"
"I see," said Isbister.
"I did my work," said the sleepless man with a querulous intonation.
"And this is the price?"
"Yes."
For a little while the two remained without speaking.
"You cannot imagine the craving for rest that I feel--a hunger andthirst. For six long days, since my work was done, my mind has been awhirlpool, swift, unprogressive and incessant, a torrent of thoughtsleading nowhere, spinning round swift and steady--" He paused. "Towardsthe gulf."
"You must sleep," said Isbister decisively, and with an air of a remedydiscovered. "Certainly you must sleep."
"My mind is perfectly lucid. It was never clearer. But I know I amdrawing towards the vortex. Presently--"
"Yes?"
"You have seen things go down an eddy? Out of the light of the day, outof this sweet world of sanity--down--"
"But," expostulated Isbister.
The man threw out a hand towards him, and his eyes were wild, and hisvoice suddenly high. "I shall kill myself. If in no other way--at thefoot of yonder dark precipice there, where the waves are green, and thewhite surge lifts and falls, and that little thread of water tremblesdown. There at any rate is ... sleep."
"That's unreasonable," said Isbister, startled at the man's hystericalgust of emotion. "Drugs are better than that."
"There at any rate is sleep," repeated the stranger, not heeding him.
Isbister looked at him. "It's not a cert, you know," he remarked."There's a cliff like that at Lulworth Cove--as high, anyhow--and alittle girl fell from top to bottom. And lives to-day--sound and well."
"But those rocks there?"
"One might lie on them rather dismally through a cold night, broken bonesgrating as one shivered, chill water splashing over you. Eh?"
Their eyes met. "Sorry to upset your ideals," said Isbister with a senseof devil-may-careish brilliance. "But a suicide over that cliff (or anycliff for the matter of that), really, as an artist--" He laughed. "It'sso damned amateurish."
"But the other thing," said the sleepless man irritably, "the otherthing. No man can keep sane if night after night--"
"Have you been walking along this coast alone?"
"Yes."
"Silly sort of thing to do. If you'll excuse my saying so. Alone! As yousay; body fag is no cure for brain fag. Who told you to? No wonder;walking! And the sun on your head, heat, fag, solitude, all the day long,and then, I suppose, you go to bed and try very hard--eh?"
Isbister stopped short and looked at the sufferer doubtfully.
"Look at these rocks!" cried the seated man with a sudden force ofgesture. "Look at that sea that has shone and quivered there for ever!See the white spume rush into darkness under that great cliff. And thisblue vault, with the blinding sun pouring from the dome of it. It is yourworld. You accept it, you rejoice in it. It warms and supports anddelights you. And for me--"
He turned his head and showed a ghastly face, bloodshot pallid eyes andbloodless lips. He spoke almost in a whisper. "It is the garment of mymisery. The whole world ... is the garment of my misery."
Isbister looked at all the wild beauty of the sunlit cliffs about themand back to that face of despair. For a moment he was silent.
He started, and made a gesture of impatient rejection. "You get anight's sleep," he said, "and you won't see much misery out here. Takemy word for it."
He was quite sure now that this was a providential encounter. Only halfan hour ago he had been feeling horribly bored. Here was employment thebare thought of which, was righteous self-applause. He took possessionforthwith. The first need of this exhausted being was companionship. Heflung himself down on the steeply sloping turf beside the motionlessseated figure, and threw out a skirmishing line of gossip.
His hearer lapsed into apathy; he stared dismally seaward, and spoke onlyin answer to Isbister's direct questions--and not to all of those. But hemade no objection to this benevolent intrusion upon his despair.
He seemed even grateful, and when presently Isbister, feeling that hisunsupported talk was losing vigour, suggested that they should reascendthe steep and return towards Boscastle, alleging the view into Blackapit,he submitted quietly. Halfway up he began talking to himself, andabruptly turned a ghastly face on his helper. "What can be happening?" heasked with a gaunt illustrative hand. "What can be happening? Spin, spin,spin, spin. It goes round and round, round and round for evermore."
He stood with his hand circling.
"It's all right, old chap," said Isbister with the air of an old friend."Don't worry yourself. Trust to me,"
The man dropped his hand and turned again. They went over the brow and tothe headland beyond Penally,
with the sleepless man gesticulating everand again, and speaking fragmentary things concerning his whirling brain.At the headland they stood by the seat that looks into the dark mysteriesof Blackapit, and then he sat down. Isbister had resumed his talkwhenever the path had widened sufficiently for them to walk abreast. Hewas enlarging upon the complex difficulty of making Boscastle Harbour inbad weather, when suddenly and quite irrelevantly his companioninterrupted him again.
"My head is not like what it was," he said, gesticulating for want ofexpressive phrases. "It's not like what it was. There is a sort ofoppression, a weight. No--not drowsiness, would God it were! It is likea shadow, a deep shadow falling suddenly and swiftly across somethingbusy. Spin, spin into the darkness. The tumult of thought, the confusion,the eddy and eddy. I can't express it. I can hardly keep my mind onit--steadily enough to tell you."
He stopped feebly.
"Don't trouble, old chap," said Isbister. "I think I can understand. Atany rate, it don't matter very much just at present about telling me,you know."
The sleepless man thrust his knuckles into his eyes and rubbed them.Isbister talked for awhile while this rubbing continued, and then he hada fresh idea. "Come down to my room," he said, "and try a pipe. I canshow you some sketches of this Blackapit. If you'd care?"
The other rose obediently and followed him down the steep.
Several times Isbister heard him stumble as they came down, and hismovements were slow and hesitating. "Come in with me," saidIsbister, "and try some cigarettes and the blessed gift of alcohol.If you take alcohol?"
The stranger hesitated at the garden gate. He seemed no longer aware ofhis actions. "I don't drink," he said slowly, coming up the garden path,and after a moment's interval repeated absently, "No--I don't drink. Itgoes round. Spin, it goes--spin--"
He stumbled at the doorstep and entered the room with the bearing of onewho sees nothing.
Then he sat down heavily in the easy chair, seemed almost to fall intoit. He leant forward with his brows on his hands and became motionless.Presently he made a faint sound in his throat.
Isbister moved about the room with the nervousness of an inexperiencedhost, making little remarks that scarcely required answering. Hecrossed the room to his portfolio, placed it on the table and noticedthe mantel clock.
"I don't know if you'd care to have supper with me," he said with anunlighted cigarette in his hand--his mind troubled with ideas of afurtive administration of chloral. "Only cold mutton, you know, butpassing sweet. Welsh. And a tart, I believe." He repeated this aftermomentary silence.
The seated man made no answer. Isbister stopped, match in hand,regarding him.
The stillness lengthened. The match went out, the cigarette was put downunlit. The man was certainly very still. Isbister took up the portfolio,opened it, put it down, hesitated, seemed about to speak. "Perhaps," hewhispered doubtfully. Presently he glanced at the door and back to thefigure. Then he stole on tiptoe out of the room, glancing at hiscompanion after each elaborate pace.
He closed the door noiselessly. The house door was standing open, andhe went out beyond the porch, and stood where the monkshood rose at thecorner of the garden bed. From this point he could see the strangerthrough the open window, still and dim, sitting head on hand. He hadnot moved.
A number of children going along the road stopped and regarded the artistcuriously. A boatman exchanged civilities with him. He felt that possiblyhis circumspect attitude and position looked peculiar and unaccountable.Smoking, perhaps, might seem more natural. He drew pipe and pouch fromhis pocket, filled the pipe slowly.
"I wonder," ... he said, with a scarcely perceptible loss ofcomplacency. "At any rate one must give him a chance." He struck a matchin the virile way, and proceeded to light his pipe.
He heard his landlady behind him, coming with his lamp lit from thekitchen. He turned, gesticulating with his pipe, and stopped her at thedoor of his sitting-room. He had some difficulty in explaining thesituation in whispers, for she did not know he had a visitor. Sheretreated again with the lamp, still a little mystified to judge from hermanner, and he resumed his hovering at the corner of the porch, flushedand less at his ease.
Long after he had smoked out his pipe, and when the bats were abroad,curiosity dominated his complex hesitations, and he stole back into hisdarkling sitting-room. He paused in the doorway. The stranger was stillin the same attitude, dark against the window. Save for the singing ofsome sailors aboard one of the little slate-carrying ships in the harbourthe evening was very still. Outside, the spikes of monkshood anddelphinium stood erect and motionless against the shadow of the hillside.Something flashed into Isbister's mind; he started, and leaning over thetable, listened. An unpleasant suspicion grew stronger; becameconviction. Astonishment seized him and became--dread!
No sound of breathing came from the seated figure!
He crept slowly and noiselessly round the table, pausing twice to listen.At last he could lay his hand on the back of the armchair. He bent downuntil the two heads were ear to ear.
Then he bent still lower to look up at his visitor's face. He startedviolently and uttered an exclamation. The eyes were void spaces of white.
He looked again and saw that they were open and with the pupils rolledunder the lids. He was afraid. He took the man by the shoulder and shookhim. "Are you asleep?" he said, with his voice jumping, and again, "Areyou asleep?"
A conviction took possession of his mind that this man was dead. Hebecame active and noisy, strode across the room, blundering against thetable as he did so, and rang the bell.
"Please bring a light at once," he said in the passage. "There issomething wrong with my friend."
He returned to the motionless seated figure, grasped the shoulder, shookit, shouted. The room was flooded with yellow glare as his landladyentered with the light. His face was white as he turned blinking towardsher. "I must fetch a doctor," he said. "It is either death or a fit. Isthere a doctor in the village? Where is a doctor to be found?"
