Complete Works of Bram Stoker

by Bram Stoker

We all went down to the beach, where the boats was ready on the shore. Some of them was freshly painted, an’ a couple had bright ribbons tied about them. Bill’s boat was the one that Mary an’ me was to go in, an’ Bill himself was to pull stroke oar in her. He had got for a crew three of the young fellows we knew best, an’ who was the cracks at rowin’, an’ we was determined to race all the other boats to the island. The lads had all run on before us, an’ when we came down to the beach the boats was all ready, an’ the baskets with the dinner put in them, so we all got on board, an’ off we started.

  Mary an’ me, we held the rudder together, an’ Bill an’ his lads bent to their oars, an’ away we flew, an’ in a quarter of an hour came to the island, leading the others by a hundred yards. We all got out, an’ the lads carried up the baskets to the slope up yonder, where you see the moonlight shine on the island, where there was a fine, level place on the edge of the cliff.

  The grass there was short an’ as smooth as a table; an’ when you stood on the edge of the cliff the water was straight below you, for the rock went sheer some forty feet. Mary an’ me stood there on the edge while the lads an’ the girls got ready the feast, for they wouldn’t let us put hand to anything; an’ we looked at the water hurryin’ by under us. The tide had turned, an’ the water was runnin’ like a mill race down away past the island, an’ runnin’ straight away for the head off there as far as you can see. The currents is very contrary here, so you’d better not get caught in them when you’re sailin’ orswimmin’.

  We all sat down, an’ if we didn’t enjoy our dinner, all of us, it was a queer thing; an’ after dinner was over the girls insisted on havin’ a dance. We got the things all cleared off an’ danced away for some time, an’ then some one proposed blind man’s buff. One young fellow was blinded, an’ we all stood round; an’ then the fun began. The young chap - Mark Somers by name - used to make wild rushes to try an’ get some one, an’ then the girls yelled out, an’ they all scurried away as quick as they could, an’ the fun grew greater an’ greater. At last he made a dive over to the place where Mary was standin’ near the brink of the cliff. We all yelled to her to take care where she was goin’; but I suppose she thought it was merely our fun, for she laughed an’ screamed out like the others - an’ stepped backward. Before any one could stop her, she went over the edge of the cliff an’ disappeared. I was sittin’ up on a rock, an’ when I saw her fall over the edge I gave a cry that you might have heard a mile away an’ jumped down an’ ran across the grass.

  But a better man than me was there before me. Bill had pulled off his jacket an’ kicked off his shoes, an’ was at the edge before me. Before he jumped, he cried out:

  “Joe, run for the boats, quick! I’ll keep her up till you come. I can swim stronger nor you.”

  I didn’t wait a second, but ran down to where the boats was drawn up on the beach. Some of the chaps came with me as hard as they could run, an’ we shoved down the nearest boat. But in spite of all our efforts - an’ we was so mad with excitement that not one of us but had the strength of ten - it took us a couple of minutes to get out fair on the water.

  Well, when we was fair started I pulled so hard that I broke my oar, an’ we had to stop to get another; an’ then we had to row all the way round the spur of the rocks out there before we could even see whereabout Mary an’ Bill should be. The men an’ women on the rocks screamed out to us an’ pointed in their direction, an’ the boat flew along at every stroke. But the current was mortal strong, an’ they had been for nigh five minutes in the water before we caught sight of them. An’ it seemed to me to be years before we came anigh them at all. Mary was weighed down with her clothes, an’ Bill with his; an’, in spite of what a swimmer I knew Bill was, I feared lest we should come too late.

  At last we began to close on them. I could see over my shoulder as we rowed. I could only see Mary’s face, but that was beacon enough for me. I called to one of the men to slip into my place an’ row, an’ he did, an’ I got out into the bows. There was Mary with her face all white an’ her eyes closed, as if she was dead; her hair was all draggin’ in the water, an’ as the current rolled her along, her dress moved as if it was some strange fish under the water. I could see nothin’ of Bill; but I hadn’t need to think, for I knew that where Mary was there was Bill somewhere anigh to her. When we came nearer I saw where Bill was.

  Look here, he was down under the water, an’ with his last breath he was keepin’ her afloat till we came. I saw his two hands rise up out of the water, holdin’ her up by the hair; but that was all. Many’s the time since then that, in spite of all I loved Mary, I was tempted to be cross with her - for we laborin’ men is only rough folk, after all, an’ we have a deal o’ hardship to bear at times. But whenever I was tempted to say a hard word, or even to think hard of her, them two hands of Bill’s seemed to rise up between me an’ her, and I could no more think or say a hard word than I could stand quiet an’ see another man strike her. An’ I wouldn’t be like for to do that!

  Well, we took them into the boat an’ came home. Mary recovered, for she had only had the shock of her fall; but when we took in Bill, it was only-

  He kept his word that he spoke to me that night; he gave up his life for hers! You’ll see that on his tomb in the churchyard that we all put up to him:

  “Greater Love Hath No Man Than This:

  That a Man Shall Give Up His Life For His Friend.”

  There’s no more left like Bill. An’ Mary thinks it, too, as well as me.

  IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW

  The rubber-tyred wheels jolt unevenly over the granite setts. Dimly I recognise the familiar grey streets and garden-centred squares.

  We stop, and through the little crowd on the pavement I am carried indoors and up to the high-ceiling ward. Gently they lift me off the stretcher and put me in bed, and I say:

  “What queer curtains you have! They have faces worked on the border. Are they those of your friends?”

  The matron smiles, and I think what a quaint idea it is. Then suddenly it strikes me that I have said something foolish, but still the faces are there right enough. (Even when I got well I could sometimes see them in certain lights.)

  One of the faces is familiar, and I am just going to ask how they know So-and-so, when I am left alone.

  For hours and hours (it seems) no one comes near me. At first I am patient, but gradually a fierce anger seizes me. Did I submit to be brought here merely to die in solitude and in suffocating darkness? I will not stay in this place; far better to go back and die at home!

  Suddenly I am borne in a winged machine up, up into the cool air. Far below and infinitesimally small lies the “New Town,” half-hid beneath the fluffy smoke; yonder, clear and blue and glittering, is the Firth of Forth; and beyond the sunlit hills of Fife are the advance-guards of the Grampians. A moment only of sheer palpitating ecstasy, then a soul-shattering fall into the black abyss of oblivion. (I hold Mr H. G. Wells partially responsible for this little excursion.)

  It is light again, but what is that which prevents my seeing the window? A screen? What does that betoken?

  A blackness of despair grips me. It is all over, then! No more mountaineering, no more pleasant holidays. This is the end of all my little ambitions. This is, in truth, the bitterness of death.

  Presently a nurse comes with a cooling drink, and, making a tremendous effort to look unconcerned, I ask for the screen to be removed. She laughs and folds it up, when I see another screen opposite partially concealing a bed. So I have company. (This was a comparatively lucid interval.)

  What a queer place to have texts! Right round the cornice of the room. And they are constantly changing too. “The Lord is my Shepherd-” “I will arise-” Really this is most irritating. I cannot finish any of them. If the letters would only stay still for a single moment!

  But what is that below? It is a wide sandy beach with the blue sea beyond. On the top of a pole in the foreground is a-what is it?-yes, a man’s
head, of course. (It was really a hanging electric light which by some curious means I must have seen in an inverted position.)

  “Sister, I am sure that could be worked up into a splendid story. Please give me some paper and my fountain pen. If I don’t write it down now I shall forget it, just as has happened before when I have thought of things during the night.” (As a matter of fact, when, I was convalescent I did want to write not only this particular tale, but a complete account of my visions. Of course, I was not permitted, and now, alas! it has gone to join that great company of magnificent-seeming but elusive ideas one has in dreams.)

  “Honestly, Sister, I must go out for a few moments. The man is in great danger, and I alone can save him. There is a desperate plot against his life. He lives quite close by in one of the two houses on each side of this.”

  Sister promises to see about this, and I lie back only half-satisfied.

  Presently my bed begins noiselessly to move. It goes through the wall into the next house. Room after room is visited, but my doomed friend is not there. The other houses are then inspected in turn, with no result. I have a feeling that he is being spirited away just in front of me so as to be always in the next house. Sister is at the bottom of this trick, I am sure. (Here began that absurd hatred and suspicion of her which only left me with the delirium.)

  “Oh, doctor, I am glad to see you! Really in a free country it is intolerable that a simple request like this cannot be granted me, and to save a man’s life, too. You can see for yourself that I am quite sensible and very much in earnest. Try me.”

  The doctor asks what day of the week it is. I answer, Scots fashion:

  “Oh, that’s easy! If I am the man who came here on Monday, then it is Wednesday, but if I came on Thursday, then it’s Saturday. If you will tell me which man I am, I will tell you what day it is.”

  Overcome by this logic, the doctor gives in, but suggests a compromise, to which I agree. It is that the four neighbouring houses be brought in and placed before my bed, so that I can make sure of seeing and warning my friend in distress.

  “No, I will not drink whisky. Surely you know perfectly well that I am a Mussulman and forbidden to drink spirits? You cannot wish me to violate the principles of my religion?”

  Sister assures me that the draught is not whisky, and puts the glass to my lips.

  In horror I dash it to the floor.

  “Devil in human form, you tempt me to my destruction. Begone and let me die in the true faith.” (Of course it was not whisky, but something of quite an opposite nature. Weeks later, on recounting this incident, I was reminded of having one day casually read a page or two of a novel in which a Mohammedan is tempted to drink wine. It made no impression whatever at the time, but it must have been stored up somewhere.)

  Presently Sister returns with three other nurses and a fresh supply of the accursed stuff. All means are tried, from argument, in which they are signally worsted, to persuasion and gentle force.

  Suddenly I resolve on flight, and actually reach the door of the room before being overpowered and brought back to bed. Then I am asked to put my finger in the dose and prove to myself that it is not whisky. In this suggestion I see Sister’s malicious cunning, so I smell the wet finger, and triumphantly assert that it is whisky.

  When they say it is twelve o’clock, and that I am keeping them all out of bed, I answer that they need not stay for me, and, anyway, what is that to the loss of my soul?

  At length I am forced down, and the glass put to my clenched teeth. I pray inwardly for help in this dire extremity. Lo! a brilliant idea. I will pretend to be dead. I stiffen myself and hold my breath. (I can remember no further effort, but I was told afterwards the imitation was wonderful. Even the nurses grew alarmed, and the doctor was sent for. I have a dim recollection of his coming, and before I knew where I was he had injected something, which I thought was the whisky, into my arm.)

  I sit up in bed, and glare at them all with concentrated hatred, then I fall back, heartbroken at my forced abjuration, sobbing, sobbing.

  I am suffering for my sin. Sister is stabbing me in the Shoulder-blade with a red-hot dagger. (It was a fly-blister, and my skin is very sensitive.) I am aching all over.

  Suddenly I am alone on a flat desert plain. I am sitting with my back against one of the stone pillars of a huge closed gateway reaching to the sky. In front of me is proceeding a cinematographic entertainment on a stupendous scale. (I cannot now remember much about it, but the series was long and of an appalling character. Below each picture was a placard stating the subject of the next one. I had the feeling that they were not pictures at all, but real events in the process of happening; further that by answering a question put to me by a mysterious voice I could bring the series to an end, but, though I knew the answer, it was quite beyond my power to give it. Immediately following my failure to reply, from somewhere behind me a full organ pealed forth and a choir of voices broke into a mocking ditty, which embodied the proper answer, and also words of scorn directed against myself. Till recently this ditty haunted me occasionally, but I have now, I am glad to say, forgotten both air and words. All I know is that it was like a quick chant, and quite unfamiliar to me. When the horrid song was over I fell into a state of self-condemnation mixed with helpless expectancy, which was so poignant as to move me still when I think of it.)

  This picture is one of wars and earthquakes and burning mountains. Underneath it are the words “End of the World.” I have a vision of the countless myriads of mankind kneeling in agony on the other side of the gate. A multitudinous murmur swells into an awful shriek for pity.

  “Who am I, O God, that this burden is laid on me? Am I the keeper of that countless host? I cannot answer.”

  Even as I speak a shudder cleaves the air, a cataclysmal mirage comes into view, the organ booms and the impish choir begins its torturing refrain.

  Underneath this picture there is no placard.

  The dreadful music ceases, and the horrid scene before me works on in silence. It passes, and then there is neither light nor darkness. The desert disappears, the gateway is no more, the infinite host has gone like the dew of the morning, and I am left in presence of nothing.

  The realisation is frightful; my brain is whirling; relief must come; human nature cannot bear it. Ah, thank God, I am going mad-when from somewhere, but whence I know not, comes a light scornful laugh, a Satanic voice says, “Sold again!” the organ swells, the invisible choir sings anew, and the whole series of pictures begins again from the beginning. For a moment the tension is relaxed, “God’s in His heaven” after all, when, like the clang of steel, the Voice utters the unanswerable question. Oh, God, I must-I shall speak. The answer, the answer is-

  “What time is it, Russell?” (Russell was the male night-nurse, the necessity for whose presence the reader will by this time fully understand!)

  “Half-past four, sir.”

  “Well, I must get up to catch the first train to Glasgow. It is a matter of life and death. Please give me my clothes.”

  Russell endeavours to soothe me with promises of going tomorrow, and so forth, all of which I see through with merciless clearness. In the end, as I threaten to alarm the whole household, I am wrapped up in blankets, carried to an easy-chair before the fire, and a screen put behind me.

  “You can’t get a train, sir, before half-past six.”

  “Excuse me, there is a train at 5.55, and I am going to get it. By the way, are you sure Sister is not about? I thought I saw her round the corner of the screen. No? Then give me some soda and milk, and have you a cigarette anywhere?”

  Russell naturally denied having cigarettes, whereupon, as he afterwards told me, I proceeded to curse him, his family, antecedents, and descendants together, with such copiousness and minuteness of diction that I spoke without stopping for an hour and a half! I fancy Mr Kipling is responsible for at least the Indian meticulosity of my comminations. Anyhow, the effort having exhausted me, on Russell saying that I had
now missed the train, and had better go back to bed to wait for the next, I sensibly agreed.

  That was the climax, and on awaking some hours later from a peaceful sleep I found that the crisis was past, and that I was as sane again as usual. The first book I asked for was the Pilgrim’s Progress, and as soon as I was permitted to read I turned to the account of Christian’s passage through the Valley of the Shadow. I had felt before that Bunyan’s demons were stage demons, his quagmires and pits merely simulacra, the accessories generally such as Drury Lane would laugh to scorn. Now I am sure of it. The real difficulty, of course, is to do it better.

  THE MAN FROM SHORROX

  ‘Throth, yer ‘ann’rs, I’ll tell ye wid pleasure; though, trooth to tell, it’s only poor wurrk telling the same shtory over an’ over agin. But I niver object to tell it to rale gintlemin, like yer ‘ann’rs, what don’t forget that a poor man has a mouth on to him as much as Creeshus himself has.

  The place was a market town in Kilkenny — or maybe King’s County or Queen’s County. At all evints, it was wan of them counties what Cromwell — bad cess to him! — gev his name to. An’ the house was called after him that was the Lord Liftinint an’ invinted the polis — God forgive him! It was kep’ be a man iv the name iv Misther Mickey Byrne an’ his good lady — at laste it was till wan dark night whin the bhoys mistuk him for another gindeman, an unknown man, what had bought a contagious property — mind ye the impidence iv him. Mickey was comin’ back from the Curragh Races wid his skin that tight wid the full of the whiskey inside of him that he couldn’t open his eyes to see what was goin’ on, or his mouth to set the bhoys right afther he had got the first tap on the head wid wan of the blackthorns what they done such jobs wid. The poor bhoys was that full of sorra for their mishap whin they brung him home to his widdy that the crather hadn’t the hearrt to be too sevare on thim. At the first iv course she was wroth, bein’ only a woman afther all, an’ weemun not bein’ gave to rayson like nun is. Millia murdher! but for a bit she was like a madwoman, and was nigh to have cut the heads from affav thim wid the mate chopper, till, seein’ thim so white and quite, she all at wance flung down the chopper an’ knelt down be the corp.