In the Valley of the Shadow by Bram Stoker (read aloud .TXT) π
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
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screen put behind me.
βYou canβt get a train, sir, before half-past six.β
βExcuse 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?β
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
Pilgrimβs Progress, and as soon as I was permitted to read I
turned to the account of Christianβs passage through the Valley
of the Shadow. I had felt before that Bunyanβs 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.
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