INSOMNIA
One afternoon, at low water, Mr. Isbister, a artist at Boscastle, walked from that place to the of Pentargen, to the there. Halfway the path to the Pentargen beach he came upon a man in an of a of rock. The hands of this man over his knees, his were red and him, and his was wet with tears.
He at Isbister's footfall. Both men were disconcerted, Isbister the more so, and, to the of his pause, he remarked, with an air of conviction, that the weather was for the time of year.
"Very," answered the shortly, a second, and added in a tone, "I can't sleep."
Isbister stopped abruptly. "No?" was all he said, but his his helpful impulse.
"It may incredible," said the stranger, to Isbister's and his with a hand, "but I have had no sleep—no sleep at all for six nights."
"Had advice?"
"Yes. Bad for the most part. Drugs. My system…. They are all very well for the of people. It's hard to explain. I not take … powerful drugs."
"That makes it difficult," said Isbister.
He in the narrow path, what to do. Clearly the man wanted to talk. An idea natural under the circumstances, him to keep the going. "I've from myself," he said in a of gossip, "but in those cases I have known, people have something—"
"I make no experiments."
He spoke wearily. He gave a of rejection, and for a space men were silent.
"Exercise?" Isbister diffidently, with a from his interlocutor's of to the he wore.
"That is what I have tried. Unwisely perhaps. I have the coast, day after day—from New Quay. It has only added to the mental. The of this was overwork—trouble. There was something—"
He stopped as if from fatigue. He his with a hand. He speech like one who talks to himself.
"I am a wolf, a man, through a world in which I have no part. I am wifeless—childless—who is it speaks of the as the on the tree of life? I am wifeless, childless—I no to do. No in my heart. One thing at last I set myself to do.
"I said, I will do this, and to do it, to overcome the of this body, I to drugs. Great God, I've had of drugs! I don't know if you the of the body, its of time from the mind—time—life! Live! We only live in patches. We have to eat, and then comes the complacencies—or irritations. We have to take the air or else our sluggish, stupid, into and alleys. A thousand from and without, and then comes and sleep. Men to live for sleep. How little of a man's day is his own—even at the best! And then come those false friends, those Thug helpers, the that natural and kill rest—black coffee, cocaine—"
"I see," said Isbister.
"I did my work," said the man with a intonation.
"And this is the price?"
"Yes."
For a little while the two without speaking.
"You cannot the for that I feel—a and thirst. For six long days, since my work was done, my mind has been a whirlpool, swift, and incessant, a of leading nowhere, and steady—" He paused. "Towards the gulf."
"You must sleep," said Isbister decisively, and with an air of a discovered. "Certainly you must sleep."
"My mind is perfectly lucid. It was clearer. But I know I am the vortex. Presently—"
"Yes?"
"You have go an eddy? Out of the light of the day, out of this sweet world of sanity—down—"
"But," Isbister.
The man out a hand him, and his were wild, and his voice high. "I shall kill myself. If in no other way—at the of dark there, where the are green, and the white and falls, and that little of water down. There at any is … sleep."
"That's unreasonable," said Isbister, at the man's of emotion. "Drugs are than that."
"There at any is sleep," the stranger, not him.
Isbister looked at him. "It's not a cert, you know," he remarked. "There's a like that at Lulworth Cove—as high, anyhow—and a little girl from top to bottom. And to-day—sound and well."
"But those there?"
"One might on them through a cold night, as one shivered, water over you. Eh?"
Their met. "Sorry to your ideals," said Isbister with a of devil-may-careish brilliance. "But a suicide over that (or any for the of that), really, as an artist—" He laughed. "It's so amateurish."
"But the other thing," said the man irritably, "the other thing. No man can keep if night after night—"
"Have you been walking along this alone?"
"Yes."
"Silly of thing to do. If you'll my saying so. Alone! As you say; is no 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 and try very hard—eh?"
Isbister stopped and looked at the doubtfully.
"Look at these rocks!" the seated man with a of gesture. "Look at that sea that has and there for ever! See the white into under that great cliff. And this vault, with the sun from the of it. It is your world. You accept it, you in it. It and supports and you. And for me—"
He his and a face, and lips. He spoke almost in a whisper. "It is the of my misery. The whole world … is the of my misery."
Isbister looked at all the wild of the about them and to that of despair. For a moment he was silent.
He started, and a of rejection. "You a night's sleep," he said, "and you won't see much out here. Take my word for it."
He was sure now that this was a encounter. Only an hour ago he had been bored. Here was the of which, was self-applause. He took forthwith. The need of this being was companionship. He himself on the the seated figure, and out a line of gossip.
His into apathy; he seaward, and spoke only in answer to Isbister's direct questions—and not to all of those. But he no to this upon his despair.
He grateful, and when presently Isbister, that his talk was vigour, that they should the and return Boscastle, the view into Blackapit, he submitted quietly. Halfway up he talking to himself, and a on his helper. "What can be happening?" he asked with a hand. "What can be happening? Spin, spin, spin, spin. It goes and round, and for evermore."
He 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 his hand and again. They over the and to the Penally, with the man and again, and speaking his brain. At the they by the seat that looks into the dark of Blackapit, and then he sat down. Isbister had his talk the path had for them to walk abreast. He was upon the of making Boscastle Harbour in weather, when and his him again.
"My is not like what it was," he said, for want of phrases. "It's not like what it was. There is a of oppression, a weight. No—not drowsiness, would God it were! It is like a shadow, a and across something busy. Spin, into the darkness. The of thought, the confusion, the and eddy. I can't it. I can keep my mind on it—steadily to tell you."
He stopped feebly.
"Don't trouble, old chap," said Isbister. "I think I can understand. At any rate, it don't very much just at present about telling me, you know."
The man his into his and them. Isbister talked for while this continued, and then he had a fresh idea. "Come to my room," he said, "and try a pipe. I can you some sketches of this Blackapit. If you'd care?"
The other rose and him the steep.
Several times Isbister him as they came down, and his
movements were slow and hesitating. "Come in with me," said
Isbister, "and try some cigarettes and the gift of alcohol.
If you take alcohol?"
The at the garden gate. He no longer aware of his actions. "I don't drink," he said slowly, up the garden path, and after a moment's absently, "No—I don't drink. It goes round. Spin, it goes—spin—"
He at the and entered the room with the of one who sees nothing.
Then he sat in the easy chair, almost to into it. He with his on his hands and motionless. Presently he a in his throat.
Isbister moved about the room with the of an host, making little that answering. He the room to his portfolio, it on the table and noticed the clock.
"I don't know if you'd to have supper with me," he said with an cigarette in his hand—his mind with ideas of a administration of chloral. "Only cold mutton, you know, but sweet. Welsh. And a tart, I believe." He this after silence.
The seated man no answer. Isbister stopped, match in hand, him.
The lengthened. The match out, the cigarette was put unlit. The man was very still. Isbister took up the portfolio, opened it, put it down, hesitated, about to speak. "Perhaps," he doubtfully. Presently he at the door and to the figure. Then he on out of the room, at his after each pace.
He closed the door noiselessly. The house door was open, and he out the porch, and where the rose at the of the garden bed. From this point he see the through the open window, still and dim, on hand. He had not moved.
A number of children going along the road stopped and the artist curiously. A with him. He that possibly his and position looked and unaccountable. Smoking, perhaps, might more natural. He pipe and from his pocket, the pipe slowly.
"I wonder," … he said, with a of complacency. "At any one must give him a chance." He a match in the way, and to light his pipe.
He his him, with his lamp from the kitchen. He turned, with his pipe, and stopped her at the door of his sitting-room. He had some in the in whispers, for she did not know he had a visitor. She again with the lamp, still a little to judge from her manner, and he his at the of the porch, and less at his ease.
Long after he had out his pipe, and when the were abroad, his hesitations, and he into his sitting-room. He paused in the doorway. The was still in the same attitude, dark against the window. Save for the of some one of the little slate-carrying ships in the the was very still. Outside, the of and and against the of the hillside. Something into Isbister's mind; he started, and over the table, listened. An stronger; conviction. Astonishment him and became—dread!
No of came from the seated figure!
He slowly and the table, twice to listen. At last he his hand on the of the armchair. He until the two were ear to ear.
Then he still to look up at his visitor's face. He started and an exclamation. The were of white.
He looked again and saw that they were open and with the rolled under the lids. He was afraid. He took the man by the and him. "Are you asleep?" he said, with his voice jumping, and again, "Are you asleep?"
A took of his mind that this man was dead. He active and noisy, across the room, against the table as he did so, and the bell.
"Please a light at once," he said in the passage. "There is something with my friend."
He returned to the seated figure, the shoulder, it, shouted. The room was with yellow as his entered with the light. His was white as he her. "I must a doctor," he said. "It is either death or a fit. Is there a doctor in the village? Where is a doctor to be found?"
