of sleep, that sinister adventure of all our nights, we may say that men
go to bed daily with an audacity that would be incomprehensible if we did
not know that it is the result of ignorance of the danger.
May the merciful gods, if indeed there be such, guard
those hours when no power of the will, or drug that the cunning of man
devises, can keep me from the chasm of sleep. Death is merciful, for there
is no return therefrom, but with him who has come back out of the nethermost
chambers of night, haggard and knowing, peace rests nevermore. Fool that
I was to plunge with such unsanctioned phrensy into mysteries no man was
meant to penetrate; fool or god that he was - my only friend, who led me
and went before me, and who in the end passed into terrors which may yet
We met, I recall, in a railway station, where he was
the center of a crowd of the vulgarly curious. He was unconscious, having
fallen in a kind of convulsion which imparted to his slight black-clad
body a strange rigidity. I think he was then approaching forty years of
age, for there were deep lines in the face, wan and hollow-cheeked, but
oval and actually beautiful; and touches of gray in the thick, waving hair
and small full beard which had once been of the deepest raven black. His
brow was white as the marble of Pentelicus, and of a height and breadth
I said to myself, with all the ardor of a sculptor,
that this man was a faun's statue out of antique Hellas, dug from a temple's
ruins and brought somehow to life in our stifling age only to feel the
chill and pressure of devastating years. And when he opened his immense,
sunken, and wildly luminous black eyes I knew he would be thenceforth my
only friend - the only friend of one who had never possessed a friend before
- for I saw that such eyes must have looked fully upon the grandeur and
the terror of realms beyond normal consciousness and reality; realms which
I had cherished in fancy, but vainly sought. So as I drove the crowd away
I told him he must come home with me and be my teacher and leader in unfathomed
mysteries, and he assented without speaking a word. Afterward I found that
his voice was music - the music of deep viols and of crystalline spheres.
We talked often in the night, and in the day, when I chiseled busts of
him and carved miniature heads in ivory to immortalize his different expressions.
Of our studies it is impossible to speak, since they
held so slight a connection with anything of the world as living men conceive
it. They were of that vaster and more appalling universe of dim entity
and consciousness which lies deeper than matter, time, and space, and whose
existence we suspect only in certain forms of sleep - those rare dreams
beyond dreams which come never to common men, and but once or twice in
the lifetime of imaginative men. The cosmos of our waking knowledge, born
from such an universe as a bubble is born from the pipe of a jester, touches
it only as such a bubble may touch its sardonic source when sucked back
by the jester's whim. Men of learning suspect it little and ignore it mostly.
Wise men have interpreted dreams, and the gods have laughed. One man with
Oriental eyes has said that all time and space are relative, and men have
laughed. But even that man with Oriental eyes has done no more than suspect.
I had wished and tried to do more than suspect, and my friend had tried
and partly succeeded. Then we both tried together, and with exotic drugs
courted terrible and forbidden dreams in the tower studio chamber of the
old manor-house in hoary Kent.
Among the agonies of these after days is that chief
of torments - inarticulateness. What I learned and saw in those hours of
impious exploration can never be told - for want of symbols or suggestions
in any language. I say this because from first to last our discoveries
partook only of the nature of sensations; sensations correlated with no
impression which the nervous system of normal humanity is capable of receiving.
They were sensations, yet within them lay unbelievable elements of time
and space - things which at bottom possess no distinct and definite existence.
Human utterance can best convey the general character of our experiences
by calling them plungings or soarings; for in every period of revelation
some part of our minds broke boldly away from all that is real and present,
rushing aerially along shocking, unlighted, and fear-haunted abysses, and
occasionally tearing through certain well-marked and typical obstacles
describable only as viscous, uncouth clouds of vapors.
In these black and bodiless flights we were sometimes
alone and sometimes together. When we were together, my friend was always
far ahead; I could comprehend his presence despite the absence of form
by a species of pictorial memory whereby his face appeared to me, golden
from a strange light and frightful with its weird beauty, its anomalously
youthful cheeks, its burning eyes, its Olympian brow, and its shadowing
hair and growth of beard.
Of the progress of time we kept no record, for time
had become to us the merest illusion. I know only that there must have
been something very singular involved, since we came at length to marvel
why we did not grow old. Our discourse was unholy, and always hideously
ambitious - no god or daemon could have aspired to discoveries and conquest
like those which we planned in whispers. I shiver as I speak of them, and
dare not be explicit; though I will say that my friend once wrote on paper
a wish which he dared not utter with his tongue, and which made me burn
the paper and look affrightedly out of the window at the spangled night
sky. I will hint - only hint - that he had designs which involved the rulership
of the visible universe and more; designs whereby the earth and the stars
would move at his command, and the destinies of all living things be his.
I affirm - I swear - that I had no share in these extreme aspirations.
Anything my friend may have said or written to the contrary must be erroneous,
for I am no man of strength to risk the unmentionable spheres by which
alone one might achieve success.
There was a night when winds from unknown spaces whirled
us irresistibly into limitless vacua beyond all thought and entity. Perceptions
of the most maddeningly untransmissible sort thronged upon us; perceptions
of infinity which at the time convulsed us with joy, yet which are now
partly lost to my memory and partly incapable of presentation to others.
Viscous obstacles were clawed through in rapid succession, and at length
I felt that we had been borne to realms of greater remoteness than any
we had previously known.
My friend was vastly in advance as we plunged into
this awesome ocean of virgin aether, and I could see the sinister exultation
on his floating, luminous, too-youthful memory-face. Suddenly that face
became dim and quickly disappeared, and in a brief space I found myself
projected against an obstacle which I could not penetrate. It was like
the others, yet incalculably denser; a sticky clammy mass, if such terms
can be applied to analogous qualities in a non-material sphere.
I had, I felt, been halted by a barrier which my friend
and leader had successfully passed. Struggling anew, I came to the end
of the drug-dream and opened my physical eyes to the tower studio in whose
opposite corner reclined the pallid and still unconscious form of my fellow
dreamer, weirdly haggard and wildly beautiful as the moon shed gold-green
light on his marble features.
Then, after a short interval, the form in the corner
stirred; and may pitying heaven keep from my sight and sound another thing
like that which took place before me. I cannot tell you how he shrieked,
or what vistas of unvisitable hells gleamed for a second in black eyes
crazed with fright. I can only say that I fainted, and did not stir till
he himself recovered and shook me in his phrensy for someone to keep away
the horror and desolation.
That was the end of our voluntary searchings in the
caverns of dream. Awed, shaken, and portentous, my friend who had been
beyond the barrier warned me that we must never venture within those realms
again. What he had seen, he dared not tell me; but he said from his wisdom
that we must sleep as little as possible, even if drugs were necessary
to keep us awake. That he was right, I soon learned from the unutterable
fear which engulfed me whenever consciousness lapsed.
After each short and inevitable sleep I seemed older,
whilst my friend aged with a rapidity almost shocking. It is hideous to
see wrinkles form and hair whiten almost before one's eyes. Our mode of
life was now totally altered. Heretofore a recluse so far as I know - his
true name and origin never having passed his lips - my friend now became
frantic in his fear of solitude. At night he would not be alone, nor would
the company of a few persons calm him. His sole relief was obtained in
revelry of the most general and boisterous sort; so that few assemblies
of the young and gay were unknown to us.
Our appearance and age seemed to excite in most cases
a ridicule which I keenly resented, but which my friend considered a lesser
evil than solitude. Especially was he afraid to be out of doors alone when
the stars were shining, and if forced to this condition he would often
glance furtively at the sky as if hunted by some monstrous thing therein.
He did not always glance at the same place in the sky - it seemed to be
a different place at different times. On spring evenings it would be low
in the northeast. In the summer it would be nearly overhead. In the autumn
it would be in the northwest. In winter it would be in the east, but mostly
if in the small hours of morning.
Midwinter evenings seemed least dreadful to him. Only
after two years did I connect this fear with anything in particular; but
then I began to see that he must be looking at a special spot on the celestial
vault whose position at different times corresponded to the direction of
his glance - a spot roughly marked by the constellation Corona Borealis.
We now had a studio in London, never separating, but
never discussing the days when we had sought to plumb the mysteries of
the unreal world. We were aged and weak from our drugs, dissipations, and
nervous overstrain, and the thinning hair and beard of my friend had become
snow-white. Our freedom from long sleep was surprising, for seldom did
we succumb more than an hour or two at a time to the shadow which had now
grown so frightful a menace.
Then came one January of fog and rain, when money ran
low and drugs were hard to buy. My statues and ivory heads were all sold,
and I had no means to purchase new materials, or energy to fashion them
even had I possessed them. We suffered terribly, and on a certain night
my friend sank into a deep-breathing sleep from which I could not awaken
him. I can recall the scene now - the desolate, pitch-black garret studio
under the eaves with the rain beating down; the ticking of our lone clock;
the fancied ticking of our watches as they rested on the dressing-table;
the creaking of some swaying shutter in a remote part of the house; certain
distant city noises muffled by fog and space; and, worst of all, the deep,
steady, sinister breathing of my friend on the couch - a rhythmical breathing
which seemed to measure moments of supernal fear and agony for his spirit
as it wandered in spheres forbidden, unimagined, and hideously remote.
The tension of my vigil became oppressive, and a wild
train of trivial impressions and associations thronged through my almost
unhinged mind. I heard a clock strike somewhere - not ours, for that was
not a striking clock - and my morbid fancy found in this a new starting-point
for idle wanderings. Clocks - time - space - infinity - and then my fancy
reverted to the locale as I reflected that even now, beyond the roof and
the fog and the rain and the atmosphere, Corona Borealis was rising in
the northeast. Corona Borealis, which my friend had appeared to dread,
and whose scintillant semicircle of stars must even now be glowing unseen
through the measureless abysses of aether. All at once my feverishly sensitive
ears seemed to detect a new and wholly distinct component in the soft medley
of drug-magnified sounds - a low and damnably insistent whine from very
far away; droning, clamoring, mocking, calling, from the northeast.
But it was not that distant whine which robbed me of
my faculties and set upon my soul such a seal of fright as may never in
life be removed; not that which drew the shrieks and excited the convulsions
which caused lodgers and police to break down the door. It was not what
I heard, but what I saw; for in that dark, locked, shuttered, and curtained
room there appeared from the black northeast corner a shaft of horrible
red-gold light - a shaft which bore with it no glow to disperse the darkness,
but which streamed only upon the recumbent head of the troubled sleeper,
bringing out in hideous duplication the luminous and strangely youthful
memory-face as I had known it in dreams of abysmal space and unshackled
time, when my friend had pushed behind the barrier to those secret, innermost
and forbidden caverns of nightmare.
And as I looked, I beheld the head rise, the black,
liquid, and deep-sunken eyes open in terror, and the thin, shadowed lips
part as if for a scream too frightful to be uttered. There dwelt in that
ghastly and flexible face, as it shone bodiless, luminous, and rejuvenated
in the blackness, more of stark, teeming, brain-shattering fear than all
the rest of heaven and earth has ever revealed to me.
No word was spoken amidst the distant sound that grew
nearer and nearer, but as I followed the memory-face's mad stare along
that cursed shaft of light to its source, the source whence also the whining
came, I, too, saw for an instant what it saw, and fell with ringing ears
in that fit of shrieking epilepsy which brought the lodgers and the police.
Never could I tell, try as I might, what it actually was that I saw; nor
could the still face tell, for although it must have seen more than I did,
it will never speak again. But always I shall guard against the mocking
and insatiate Hypnos, lord of sleep, against the night sky, and against
the mad ambitions of knowledge and philosophy.
Just what happened is unknown, for not only was my
own mind unseated by the strange and hideous thing, but others were tainted
with a forgetfulness which can mean nothing if not madness. They have said,
I know not for what reason, that I never had a friend; but that art, philosophy,
and insanity had filled all my tragic life. The lodgers and police on that
night soothed me, and the doctor administered something to quiet me, nor
did anyone see what a nightmare event had taken place. My stricken friend
moved them to no pity, but what they found on the couch in the studio made
them give me a praise which sickened me, and now a fame which I spurn in
despair as I sit for hours, bald, gray-bearded, shriveled, palsied, drug-crazed,
and broken, adoring and praying to the object they found.
For they deny that I sold the last of my statuary,
and point with ecstasy at the thing which the shining shaft of light left
cold, petrified, and unvocal. It is all that remains of my friend; the
friend who led me on to madness and wreckage; a godlike head of such marble
as only old Hellas could yield, young with the youth that is outside time,
and with beauteous bearded face, curved, smiling lips, Olympian brow, and
dense locks waving and poppy-crowned. They say that that haunting memory-face
is modeled from my own, as it was at twenty-five; but upon the marble base
is carven a single name in the letters of Attica - HYPNOS.