One of the characters in "The Moon and Sixpence" remarked that he had
faithfully lived up to the old precept about doing every day two things
you heartily dislike; for, said he, every day he had got up and he had
gone to bed.
It is a sad thing that as soon as the hands of the clock have turned ten
the shadow of going to bed begins to creep over the evening. We have
never heard bedtime spoken of with any enthusiasm. One after another we
have seen a gathering disperse, each person saying (with an air of
solemn resignation): "Well, I guess I'll go to bed." But there was no
hilarity about it. It is really rather touching how they cling to the
departing skirts of the day that is vanishing under the spinning shadow
of night.
This is odd, we repeat, for sleep is highly popular among human beings.
The reluctance to go to one's couch is not at all a reluctance to
slumber, for almost all of us will doze happily in an armchair or on a
sofa, or even festooned on the floor with a couple of cushions. But the
actual and formal yielding to sheets and blankets is to be postponed to
the last possible moment.
The devil of drowsiness is at his most potent, we find, about 10:30
P. M. At this period the human carcass seems to consider that it has
finished its cycle, which began with so much courage nearly sixteen
hours before. It begins to slack and the mind halts on a dead centre
every now and then, refusing to complete the revolution. Now there are
those who hold that this is certainly the seemly and appointed time to
go to bed and they do so as a matter of routine. These are, commonly,
the happier creatures, for they take the tide of sleep at the flood and
are borne calmly and with gracious gentleness out to great waters of
nothingness. They push off from the wharf on a tranquil current and
nothing more is to be seen or heard of these voyagers until they
reappear at the breakfast table, digging lustily into their grapefruit.
These people are happy, aye, in a brutish and sedentary fashion, but
they miss the admirable adventures of those more embittered wrestlers
who will not give in without a struggle. These latter suffer severe
pangs between 10:30 and about 11:15 while they grapple with their fading
faculties and seek to reestablish the will on its tottering throne. This
requires courage stout, valour unbending. Once you yield, be it ever so
little, to the tempter, you are lost. And here our poor barren clay
plays us false, undermining the intellect with many a trick and wile. "I
will sit down for a season in that comfortable chair," the creature
says to himself, "and read this sprightly novel. That will ease my mind
and put me in humour for a continuance of lively thinking." And the end
of that man is a steady nasal buzz from the bottom of the chair where he
has collapsed, an unsightly object and a disgrace to humanity. This also
means a big bill from the electric light company at the end of the
month. In many such ways will his corpus bewray him, leading him by
plausible self-deceptions into a pitfall of sleep, whence he is aroused
about 3 A. M. when the planet turns over on the other side. Only by
stiff perseverance and rigid avoidance of easy chairs may the critical
hour between 10:30 and 11:30 be safely passed. Tobacco, a self-brewed
pot of tea, and a browsing along bookshelves (remain standing and do not
sit down with your book) are helps in this time of struggle. Even so,
there are some happily drowsy souls who can never cross these shallows
alone without grounding on the Lotus Reefs. Our friend J---- D----
K----, magnificent creature, was (when we lived with him) so potently
hypnoidal that, even erect and determined as his bookcase and urgently
bent upon Brann's _Iconoclast_ or some other literary irritant, sleep
would seep through his pores and he would fall with a crash, lying there
in unconscious bliss until someone came in and prodded him up, reeling
and ashamed.
But, as we started to say, those who survive this drastic weeding out
which Night imposes upon her wooers--so as to cull and choose only the
truly meritorious lovers--experience supreme delights which are unknown
to their snoring fellows. When the struggle with somnolence has been
fought out and won, when the world is all-covering darkness and
close-pressing silence, when the tobacco suddenly takes on fresh vigour
and fragrance and the books lie strewn about the table, then it seems as
though all the rubbish and floating matter of the day's thoughts have
poured away and only the bright, clear, and swift current of the mind
itself remains, flowing happily and without impediment. This perfection
of existence is not to be reached very often; but when properly
approached it may be won. It is a different mind that one uncovers then,
a spirit which is lucid and hopeful, to which (for a few serene hours)
time exists not. The friable resolutions of the day are brought out
again and recemented and chiselled anew. Surprising schemes are started
and carried through to happy conclusion, lifetimes of amazement are
lived in a few passing ticks. There is one who at such moments resolves,
with complete sincerity, to start at one end of the top shelf and read
again all the books in his library, intending this time really to
extract their true marrow. He takes a clean sheet of paper and sets down
memoranda of all the people he intends to write to, and all the plumbers
and what not that he will call up the next day. And the next time this
happy seizure attacks him he will go through the same gestures again
without surprise and without the slightest mortification. And then,
having lived a generation of good works since midnight struck, he
summons all his resolution and goes to bed.
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