When the Sleeper Wakes | Page 2

foot of yonder dark precipice there, where the waves are green, and the

white surge lifts and falls, and that little thread of water trembles down.
There at any rate is . . . sleep."
"That's unreasonable," said Isbister, startled at the man's hysterical gust
of emotion. "Drugs are better than that."
"There at any rate is sleep," repeated the stranger, not heeding him.
Isbister looked at him and wondered transitorily if some complex
Providence had indeed brought them together that afternoon. "It's not a
cert, you know," he remarked." There's a cliff like that at Lulworth
Cove -- as high, anyhow -- and a little 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
bones grating as one shivered, chill water splashing over you. Eh?"
Their eyes met. "Sorry to upset your ideals," said Isbister with a sense
of devil-may-careish brilliance.
"But a suicide over that cliff (or any cliff for the matter of that), really,
as an artist --" He laughed. "It's so damned amateurish."
"But the other thing," said the sleepless man irritably, "the other thing.
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 you
say; 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 of
gesture. "Look at that sea that has shone and quivered there for ever!
See the white spume rush into darkness under that great cliff. And this
blue vault, with the blinding sun pouring from the dome of it. It is your
world. You accept it, you rejoice in it. It warms and supports and
delights you. And for me --"
He turned his head and showed a ghastly face, bloodshot pallid eyes
and bloodless lips. He spoke almost in a whisper. "It is the garment of
my misery. The whole world . . . is the garment of my misery."
Isbister looked at all the wild beauty of the sunlit cliffs about them and
back to that face of despair For a moment he was silent.
He started, and made a gesture of impatient rejection. "You get a
night's sleep," he said, "and you won't see much misery out here. Take
my word for it."
He was quite sure now that this was a providential encounter. Only half
an hour ago he had been feeling horribly bored. Here was employment
the bare thought of which was righteous self-applause. He took
possession forthwith. It seemed to him that the first need of this
exhausted being was companionship He flung himself down on the
steeply sloping turf beside the motionless seated figure, and deployed
forthwith into a skirmishing line of gossip.
His hearer seemed to have lapsed into apathy; he stared dismally
seaward, and spoke only in answer to Isbister's direct questions -- and
not to all of those But he made no sign of objection to this benevolent
intrusion upon his despair.
In a helpless way he seemed even grateful, and when presently Isbister,
feeling that his unsupported talk was losing vigour, suggested that they
should reascend the steep and return towards Boscastle, alleging the
view into Blackapit, he submitted quietly. Halfway up he began talking
to himself, and abruptly turned a ghastly face on his helper. "What can
be happening?" he asked 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
in single file and to the headland beyond Penally, with the sleepless
man gesticulating ever and again, and speaking fragmentary things
concerning his whirling brain. At the headland they stood for a space
by the seat that looks into the dark mysteries of Blackapit, and then he
sat down. Isbister had resumed his talk whenever the path had widened
sufficiently for them to walk abreast. He was enlarging upon the
complex difficulty of making Boscastle Harbour in bad weather, when
suddenly and quite irrelevantly his companion interrupted him again.
"My head is not like what it was," he said, gesticulating for want of
expressive phrases. "It's not like what it was.