I have spoken both of “sound” and of “voice.” I mean to say that the sound was one of distinct-of even wonderfully, thrillingly distinct-syllabification. M. Valdemar spoke-obviously in reply to the question I had propounded to him a few minutes before. I had asked him, it will be remembered, if he still slept.
He now said:
“Yes;-no;-I have been sleeping-and now-now-I am dead.”
No person present even affected to deny, or attempted to repress, the unutterable, shuddering horror which these few words, thus uttered, were so well calculated to convey. Mr. L-l (the student) swooned. The nurses immediately left the chamber, and could not be induced to return. My own impressions I would not pretend to render intelligible to the reader. For nearly an hour, we busied ourselves, silently-without utterance of a word-in endeavors to revive Mr. L-l. When he came to himself, we addressed ourselves again to an investigation of M. Valdemar’s condition.
It remained in all respects as I have last described it, with the exception that the mirror no longer afforded evidence of respiration. An attempt to draw blood from the arm failed. I should mention, too, that this limb was no further subject to my will. I endeavored in vain to make it follow the direction of my hand. The only real indication, indeed, of the mesmeric influence, was now found in the vibratory movement of the tongue, whenever I addressed M. Valdemar a question. He seemed to be making an effort to reply, but had no longer sufficient volition. To queries put to him by any other person than myself he seemed utterly insensible-although I endeavored to place each member of the company in mesmeric rapport with him. I believe that I have now related all that is necessary to an understanding of the sleep-waker’s state at this epoch. Other nurses were procured; and at ten o’clock I left the house in company with the two physicians and Mr. L-l.
In the afternoon we all called again to see the patient. His condition remained precisely the same. We had now some discussion as to the propriety and feasibility of awakening him; but we had little difficulty in agreeing that no good purpose would be served by so doing. It was evident that, so far, death (or what is usually termed death) had been arrested by the mesmeric process. It seemed clear to us all that to awaken M. Valdemar would be merely to insure his instant, or at least his speedy, dissolution.
From this period until the close of last week-an interval of nearly seven months-we continued to make daily calls at M. Valdemar’s house, accompanied, now and then, by medical and other friends. All this time the sleeper-waker remained exactly as I have last described him. The nurses’ attentions were continual.
It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the experiment of awakening, or attempting to awaken him; and it is the (perhaps) unfortunate result of this latter experiment which has given rise to so much discussion in private circles-to so much of what I cannot help thinking unwarranted popular feeling.
For the purpose of relieving M. Valdemar from the mesmeric trance, I made use of the customary passes. These for a time were unsuccessful. The first indication of revival was afforded by a partial descent of the iris. It was observed, as especially remarkable, that this lowering of the pupil was accompanied by the profuse outflowing of a yellowish ichor (from beneath the lids) of a pungent and highly offensive odor.
It was now suggested that I should attempt to influence the patient’s arm as heretofore. I made the attempt and failed. Dr. F- then intimated a desire to have me put a question. I did so, as follows:
“M. Valdemar, can you explain to us what are your feelings or wishes now?”
There was an instant return of the hectic circles on the cheeks: the tongue quivered, or rather rolled violently in the mouth (although the jaws and lips remained rigid as before), and at length the same hideous voice which I have already described, broke forth:
“For God’s sake!-quick!-quick!-put me to sleep-or, quick! -waken me!-quick!-I say to you that I am dead!”
I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided what to do. At first I made an endeavor to recompose the patient; but, failing in this through total abeyance of the will, I retraced my steps and as earnestly struggled to awaken him. In this attempt I soon saw that I should be successful-or at least I soon fancied that my success would be complete-and I am sure that all in the room were prepared to see the patient awaken.
For what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that any human being could have been prepared.
As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of “dead! dead!” absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once-within the space of a single minute, or less, shrunk-crumbled-absolutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of loathsome-of detestable putrescence.
The Thief BY LAURIE R. KING
It is a well-known criticism of William Shakespeare that, despite being universally celebrated for his fresh originality, the man’s work is basically one cliché after another. Marching through his plays and poems, one finds the most timeworn of expressions: All the world’s a stage. To be or not to be. What’s in a name? A person really has to wonder why the Bard of Avon couldn’t scrape together a more creative turn of phrase than Shylock’s bated breath, the elbow room of King John’s soul, Trinculo’s lament that misery brings strange bedfellows-from foul play to mind’s eye, sorry sight to tower of strength, the truth of the matter is, William Shakespeare was simply grinding out the same trite clichés that we lesser mortals still wrestle with. He was just very lucky to be the first to get them into print, that’s all.
The same critique, I fear, must be leveled at our own Edgar Allan Poe. The man is credited with being the inventor of crime fiction, but when you look more closely, you find that Poe is just reworking the same old tired ideas the rest of us depend on.
An example? Okay: Some years ago, I’m writing a story about a young woman who is-I freely admit this-a female version of Sherlock Holmes. Now, Holmes, you may know, is an extraordinarily clever analytical mind who solves peculiar crimes and discusses them with a partner who isn’t quite so bright. What does it matter that Edgar Allan Poe also wrote (in “The Murders in the Rue Morgue”) about an extraordinarily clever analytical mind who solves peculiar crimes and discusses them with a partner who isn’t quite so bright? I mean, how else could you tell this kind of story, really? It doesn’t mean Arthur Conan Doyle was a plagiarist, any more than I am.
So I tell myself this and keep writing my story, and I come up with a solution to one aspect of the crime that revolves around an enigmatic cipher. Which is fine-even Dorothy Sayers has a cipher in one of her stories-except that when I later sit down to read “The Gold-Bug” I see that it, too, contains an enigmatic cipher. Hmm.
Then, a few years later, I’m working on another novel, where the characters use hypnotism to solve a case, and when I finish it, I’m pleased with how clever those characters-and of course, their author-are. Until I find that Poe has used mesmerism as well, in “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar.”
By now, I’m starting to get a little sensitive about old E.A.P. I wonder if there’s some kind of weird linkup between his brain and my laptop, a century and a half apart. It sure would explain a lot. But no, I’m just being paranoid, it’s coincidence.