Melmoth the Wanderer

not, the stones of the wall would give them the lie. Why did you not oil the hinges of the door?⁠—now for it. He sleeps intensely⁠—aye, how calm he looks!⁠—the calmer the fitter for heaven. Now⁠—now, my knee is on his breast⁠—where is the knife?⁠—where is the knife?⁠—if he looks at me I am lost. The knife⁠—I am a coward; the knife⁠—if he opens his eyes I am gone; the knife, ye cursed cravens⁠—who dare shrink when I have gripped my father’s throat? There⁠—there⁠—there⁠—blood to the hilt⁠—the old man’s blood; look for the money, while I wipe the blade. I cannot wipe it, the grey hairs are mingled with the blood⁠—those hairs brushed my lips the last time he kissed me. I was a child then. I would not have taken a world to murder him then, now⁠—now, what am I? Ha! ha! ha! Let Judas shake his bag of silver against mine⁠—he betrayed his Saviour, and I have murdered my father. Silver against silver, and soul against soul. I have got more for mine⁠—he was a fool to sell his for thirty. But for which of us will the last fire burn hotter?⁠—no matter, I am going to try.”

At these horrible expressions, repeated over and over, I called, I shrieked to my companion to awake. He did so, with a laugh almost as wild as the chattering of his dreams. “Well, what have you heard? I murdered him⁠—you knew that long before. You trusted me in this cursed adventure, which will risk the life of both, and can you not bear to hear me speak to myself, though I am only telling what you knew before?”

“No, I cannot bear it,” I answered, in an agony of horror; “not even to effect my escape, could I undertake to sustain another hour like the past⁠—the prospect of seclusion here for a whole day amid famine, damps, and darkness, listening to the ravings of a ⸻. Look not at me with that glare of mockery, I know it all, I shudder at your sight. Nothing but the iron link of necessity could have bound me to you even for a moment. I am bound to you⁠—I must bear it while it continues, but do not make those moments insupportable. My life and liberty are in your hands⁠—I must add my reason, too, in the circumstances in which we are plunged⁠—I cannot sustain your horrible eloquence of sleep. If I am forced to listen to it again, you may bear me alive from these walls, but you will bear me away an idiot, stupefied by terrors which my brain is unable to support. Do not sleep, I adjure you. Let me watch beside you during this wretched day⁠—this day which is to be measured by darkness and suffering, instead of light and enjoyment. I am willing to famish with hunger, to shudder with cold, to couch on these hard stones, but I cannot bear your dreams⁠—if you sleep, I must rouse you in defence of my reason. All physical strength is failing me fast, and I am become more jealous of the preservation of my intellect. Do not cast at me those looks of defiance, I am your inferior in strength, but despair makes us equal.” As I spoke, my voice sounded like thunder in my own ears, my eyes flashed visibly to myself. I felt the power that passion gives us, and I saw that my companion felt it too. I went on, in a tone that made myself start, “If you dare to sleep, I will wake you⁠—if you doze even, you shall not have a moment undisturbed⁠—you shall wake with me. For this long day we must starve and shiver together, I have wound myself up to it. I can bear everything⁠—everything but the dreams of him whose sleep reveals to him the vision of a murdered parent. Wake⁠—rave⁠—blaspheme⁠—but sleep you shall not!”

The man stared at me for some time, almost incredulous of my being capable of such energy of passion and command. But when he had, by the help of his dilated eyes, and gaping mouth, appeared to satisfy himself fully of the fact, his expression suddenly changed. He appeared to feel a community of nature with me for the first time. Anything of ferocity appeared congenial and balsamic to him; and, with oaths, that froze my blood, swore he liked me the better for my resolution. “I will keep awake,” he added, with a yawn that distended like the jaws of an Ogre preparing for his cannibal feast. Then suddenly relaxing, “But how shall we keep awake? We have nothing to eat, nothing to drink, what shall we do to keep awake?” And incontinently he uttered a volley of curses. Then he began to sing. But what songs?⁠—full of such ribaldry and looseness, that, bred as I was first in domestic privacy, and then in the strictness of a convent, made me believe it was an incarnate demon that was howling beside me.

I implored him to cease, but this man could pass so instantaneously from the extremes of atrocity to those of levity⁠—from the ravings of guilt and horror ineffable, to songs that would insult a brothel, that I knew not what to make of him. This union of antipodes, this unnatural alliance of the extremes of guilt and light-mindedness, I had never met or imagined before. He started from the visions of a parricide, and sung songs that would have made a harlot blush. How ignorant of life I must have been, not to know that guilt and insensibility often join to tenant and deface the same mansion, and that there is not a more strong and indissoluble alliance on earth, than that between the hand that dare do anything, and the heart that can feel nothing.

It was in the midst of one of his most licentious songs, that my companion suddenly paused. He gazed about him for some time; and faint and dismal as the light