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A Dream of Red Hands · Dracula's Guest & Other Weird Tales

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A Dream of Red Hands. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings
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are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit
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LibriVox dot org. Reading by Bologna Times, A Dream of Red Hands by
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Bram Stoker. The first opinion given to me regarding Jacob Settle was a simple
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descriptive statement, He's a down in the mouth chap. But I found that
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it embodied the thoughts and ideas of all his fellow workmen. There was in
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the phrase a certain easy tolerance, an absence of positive feeling of any kind,
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rather than any complete opinion, which marked pretty accurately the man's place in
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public esteem. Still, there was some dissimilarity between this and his appearance,
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which unconsciously set me thinking, and by degrees, as I saw more of
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the place and the workman, I came to have a special interest in him.
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He was I found forever doing kindnesses, not involving money expenses beyond his
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humble means, but in the manifold ways of forethought and forbearance and self repression,
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which are the truer charities of life. Women and children trusted him implicitly,
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though strangely, enough, he rather shunned them, except when anyone was
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sick, and then he made his appearance to help if he could. Timidly
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and awkwardly. He led a very solitary life, keeping house by himself in
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a tiny cottage or rather hut of one room, far on the edge of
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the moorland. His existence seemed so sad and solitary that I wished to cheer
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it up, and for the purpose took the occasion, when we had both
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been sit up with the child injured by me through accident, to offer to
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lend him books. He gladly accepted, and as we parted in the gray
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of the dawn, I felt something of mutual confidence had been established between us.
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The books were always most carefully and punctually returned, and in time Jacob
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Settle and I became quite friends. Once or twice, as I crossed the
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moorland on Sundays, I looked in on him, But on such occasions he
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was shy and ill at ease, so that I felt diffident about calling to
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see him. He would never, under any circumstances come into my own lodgings.
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One Sunday afternoon, I was coming back from a long walk beyond the
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moor, and as I passed Settle's cottage, stopped at the door to say
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how do you do to him? As the door was shut, I thought
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that he was out, and merely knocked for form's sake or through habit,
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not expecting to get any answer. To my surprise, I heard a feeble
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voice from within, though what was said I could not hear. I entered
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at once and found Jacob lying half dressed upon his bed. He was as
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pale as death, and the sweat was simply rolling off his face. His
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hands were unconsciously gripping the bedclothes, as a drowning man holds on to whatever
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he may grasp. As I came in, he half arose with a wild,
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hunted look in his eyes, which were wide open and staring, as
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though something of horror had come before them. But when he recognized me,
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he sank back on the couch with a smothered sob of relief and closed his
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eyes. I stood by him for a while, quite a minute or two
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while he gasped. Then he opened his eyes and looked at me, but
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with such a despairing, woeful expression that, as I am a living man,
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I would have rather seen that frozen look of horror. I sat down
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beside him and asked after his health. For a while he would not answer
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me, except to say that he was not ill. But then, after
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scrutinizing me closely, he half arose on his elbow and said, I thank
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you kindly, sir, But I am simply telling you the truth. I
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am not ill as men call it, though God knows whether there be not
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worse sicknesses than doctors know of. I'll tell you as you are so kind,
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but I trust that you won't even mention such a thing to a living
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soul, for it might welk me more and greater woe. I am suffering
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from a bad dream, A bad dream, I said, hoping to cheer
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him. But dreams pass away with the light, even with waking there I
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stopped for before his I saw the answer in his desolate look round the little
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place. No, no, that's all well for people that live in comfort
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and with those they love around them. It is a thousand times worse for
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those who live alone and have to do so. What cheir is there for
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me? Waking here in the silence of the night, with a wide more
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around me full of voices and full of faces that make my waking a worse
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dream than my sleep. Ah, young sir, you have no pass that
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can send its legions to people the darkness and the empty space, and I
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pray the Good God that you may never have. As he spoke, there
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was such an almost irresistible gravity of conviction in his manner that I abandoned my
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remonstrance about his solitary life. I felt that I was in the presence of
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some secret influence which I could not fathom my relief, for I knew not
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what to say. He went on. Two nights passed. I have dreamt
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it. It was hard enough the first night, but I came through it
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last night. The expectation was in itself almost worse than the dream, until
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the dream came, and then it swept away every remembrance of lesser pain.
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I stayed awake till just before the dawn, and then it came again.
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And ever since I have been in such an agony as I am sure the
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dying feel, and with it all the dread of to night. Before he
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had got to the end of the sentence, my mind was made up,
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and I felt that I could speak to him more cheerfully, try and get
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to sleep early to night. In fact, before the evening has passed away,
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the sleep will refresh you, and I promise you there will not be
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any bad dreams after to night. He shook his head hopelessly. So I
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sat a little longer and then left him. When I got home, I
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made my arrangements for the night, for I had made up my mind to
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share. Jacob settles lonely vigil in his cottage on the moor. I judged
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that if he got to sleep before sunset, he would wake well before midnight.
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And so, just as the bells of the city were striking eleven,
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I stood opposite his door, armed with a bag, in which were my
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supper, an extra large flask, a couple of candles, and a book.
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The moonlight was bright and flooded the whole more till it was almost as
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light as day. But ever an anon black clouds drove across the sky and
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made a darkness which, by comparison seemed almost tangible. I opened the door
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softly and entered without waking Jacob, who lay asleep with his white face upward.
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He was still and again bathed in sweat. I tried to imagine what
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visions were passing before those closed eyes, which could bring with them the misery
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and woe which were stamped on the face. But fancy failed me, and
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I waited for the awakening. It came suddenly, and in a fashion which
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touched me to the quick, for the hollow groan that broke from the man's
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white lips as he half arose and sank back, was manifestly the realization or
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completion of some train of thought which had gone before. If this be dreaming,
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I said to myself that it must be based on some very terrible reality.
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What can have been that unhappy fact that he spoke of? While thus
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I spoke, he realized that I was with him. It struck me as
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strange that he had no period of that doubt as to whether dream or reality
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surrounded him, which commonly marks an expected environment of waking men. With a
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positive cry of joy, he seized my hand and held it in his two
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wet, trembling hands, as a frightened child clings on to some one whom
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it loves. I tried to soothe him. There there, it is all
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right. I have come to stay with you to night, and together we
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will try to fight this evil dream. He let go my hand suddenly,
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and sank back on his bed and covered his eyes with his hands. Fight
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it, fight it, the evil dream. Ah, No, sir,
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no, no mortal power can fight that dream, for it comes from gold
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and is burned in here. And he beat upon his forehead. Then he
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went on, it is the same dream, ever, the same, and
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yet it groes in its power to torture me every time it comes. What
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is the dream? I asked, thinking that the speaking of it might give
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him some relief. But he shrank away from me, and, after a
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long pause, said, now I had better not tell it. It may
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not come again. There was manifestly something to conceal from me, something that
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lay beyond the dream. So I answered, all right, I hope you
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have seen the last of it, But if it should come again, you
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will tell me, will you not. I ask not out of curiosity,
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but because I think it may relieve you to speak. He answered with what
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I thought was almost an undue amount of solemnity. If it comes again,
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I shall tell you all. Then I tried to get his mind away from
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the subject to more mundane things. So I produced supper and made him share
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it with me, including the contents of the flask. After a little he
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braced up, and when I lit my cigar, having given him another,
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we smoked a full hour and talked of many things. Little by little,
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the comfort of his body stole over his mind, and I could see sleep
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laying her gentle hands on his eyelids. He felt it too, and told
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me that now he felt all right and I might safely leave him. But
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I told him that right or wrong, I was going to see in the
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daylight. So I lit my other candle and began to read. As he
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fell asleep. By degrees, I got interested in my book, so interested
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that presently I was startled by its dropping out of my hands. I looked
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and saw that Jacob was still asleep, and I was rejoiced to see that
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there was on his face a look of unwonted happiness, while his lips seemed
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to move with unspoken words. Then I turned to my work again and again
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woke, but this time to feel chilled to my very marrow by hearing the
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voice from the bed beside me, not with those red hands. Never never
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on looking at him, I found that he was still asleep. He woke,
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however, in an instant, and did not seem surprised to see me.
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There was again that strange apathy as to his surroundings. Then I said,
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settle, tell me your dream. You may speak freely, for I
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shall hold your confidence sacred while we both live. I shall never mention what
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you may choose to tell me. He replied. I said I would,
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but I had better tell you first what goes before the dream, that you
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may understand. I was a schoolmaster when I was a very young man.
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It was only a parish school in a little village in the west Country.
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No need to mention any names. Better not. I was engaged to be
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married to a young girl whom I loved and almost reverenced. It was the
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old story. While we were waiting for the time when we could afford to
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set up house together, another man came along. He was nearly as young
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as I was, and handsome, and a gentleman, with all a gentleman's
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attractive ways for a woman of our class. He would go fishing, and
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she would meet him while I was at my work in school. I reasoned
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with her and implored to give him up. I offered to get married at
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once and go away and begin the world in this strange country. But she
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would not listen to anything I could say, and I could see that she
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was infatuated with him. Then I took it on myself to meet the man
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and ask him to deal well with the girl, for I thought he might
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mean honestly by her, so that there might be no talk or chance of
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talk on the part of the others. I went where I should meet him,
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with none by, and we met here. Jacob said had to pause
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for something seemed to rise in his throat, and he almost gasped for breath.
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Then he went on, sir, as God is above us, there
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was no selfish thought in my heart that day. I loved my pretty Mabel
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too well to be content with a part of her love. And I had
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thought of my own unhappiness too often not to have come to realize that whatever
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might come to her, my hope was gone. He was insolent to me.
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You, sir, who are a gentleman, cannot know perhaps how galling
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can be the insolence of one who is above you in station. But I
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bore with that. I implored him well with the girl, for what might
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be only a pastime of an idle hour with him might be the breaking of
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her heart, for I never had a thought of her truth, or that
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the worst of harm could come to her. It was only the unhappiness to
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her heart I feared. But when I asked him when he intended to marry
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her, his laughter galled me so that I had lost my temper and told
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him that I would not stand by and see her life made unhappy. Then
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he grew angry too, and in his anger said such cruel things of her
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that then and there I swore he should not live to do her harm.
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God knows how it came about, for in such moments of passion it is
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hard to remember the steps from a word to a blow. But I found
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myself standing over his dead body with my hands, crimson, with a blood
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that welled from his torn throat. We were alone, and he was a
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stranger, with none of his kin to seek for him. And murder does
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not always out, not all at once. His bones may be whitening still,
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for all I know. In the pool of the river where I left
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him, no one suspected his absence or why it was, except my poor
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Mabel, And she dared not speak. But it was all in vain,
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for when I came back again after an absence of months, for I could
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not live in the place. I learned that her shame had come, and
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that she had died in it. Hitherto I had been borne up by the
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thought that my ill deed had saved her future. But now when I learned
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that I had been too late, and that my poor love was smirched with
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that man's sin, I fled away, with the sense of my useless guilt
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upon me more heavily than I could bear. Ah, Sir, you that
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have not done such a sin don't know what it is to carry it with
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you. You may think that custom makes it easy to you, but it
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is not so. It grows and grows with every hour till it becomes intolerable,
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and with it growing too the feeling that you must forever stand outside Heaven.
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Don't know what it means, and I pray God that you never may.
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Ordinary men to whom all things are possible, don't often, if ever,
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think of Heaven. It is a name and nothing more, and they
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are content to wait and let things be. But to those who are doomed
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to be shut out forever, you cannot think what it means. You cannot
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guess or measure the terrible, endless longing to see the gates opened, and
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to be able to join the white figures within. And this brings me to
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my dream. It seemed that the portal was before me, with great gates
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of massive steel, with bars of the thickness of a mast, rising to
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the very clouds, and so close that between them was just a glimpse of
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a crystal grotto, on whose shining walls were figured many white clad forms,
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with faces radiant with joy. When I stood before the gate, my heart
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and soul were so full of rapture and longing that I forgot. And there
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stood at the gate two mighty angels, with sweeping wings, and oh so
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stern of countenance. They held each in one hand a flaming sword, and
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in the other the latchet, which moved to and fro at the lightest touch.
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Nearer were figures, all draped in black, with heads covered so that
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only the eyes were seen, and they handed to each who came white garments,
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such as the angels were. A low murmur came that told that all
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should put on their own robes and without soil, or the angels would not
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pass them in, but would smite them down with the flaming swords. I
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was eager to don my own garment and hurriedly throw it over me. Then
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stepped swiftly to the gate, but it moved not, and the angels,
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loosing the latchet, pointed to my dress. I looked down and was aghast,
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for the whole robe was smeared with blood. My hands were red,
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they glittered with the blood that dripped from them, as on that day by
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the river bank. And then the angels raised the flaming swords to smite me
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down, and the horror was complete. I awoke again and again and again.
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That awful dream comes to me. I never learned from the experience.
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I never remember, but at the beginning the hope is ever there to make
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the end more appalling. And I know that the dream does not come out
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of the common darkness where the dreams abired, but that it is sent from
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God as a punishment. Never, never shall I be able to pass the
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gate, for the soil on the angel garments must ever come from these bloody
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hands. I listened as in a spell. As Jacob Settle spoke. There
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was something so far away in the tone of his voice, something so dreamy
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and mystic in the eyes that looked as if through me at some spirit beyond.
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Something so lofty in his very diction, and in such marked contrast to
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his work worn clothes and his poor surroundings, that I wondered if the whole
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thing were not a dream. We were both silent for a long time.
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I kept looking at the man before me, and growing wonderment. Now that
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his confession had been made, his soul, which had been crushed to the
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very earth, seemed to leap back again to uprightness with some resilient force.
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I suppose I ought to have been horrified with his story, but strange to
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say I was not. It certainly is not pleasant to be made the recipient
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of the confidence of a murderer. But this poor fellow seemed to have had
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not only so much provocation, but so much self denying purpose in his deed
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of blood, that I did not feel called upon to pass judgment upon him.
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My purpose was to comfort, so I spoke out with what calmness I
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could, for my heart was beating fast and heavily. You need not despair,
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Jacob Settle. God is very good, and his mercy is great.
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Live on and work on in the hope that some day you may feel that
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you have atoned for the past. Here I paused, for I could see
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that deep natural sleep this time was creeping upon him. Go to sleep,
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I said, I shall watch with you here, and we shall have no
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more evil dreams to night. He made an effort to pull himself together and
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answered, I don't know how to thank you for your goodness to me this
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night, but I think you had best leave me now. I'll try and
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sleep this out. I feel a weight off my mind since I have told
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you all, if there's anything of the man left in me, I must
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try and fight out life alone. I'll go to night as you wish it,
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I said, But take my advice and do not live in such a
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solitary way. Go among men and women, Live among them, share their
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joys and sorrows, and it will help you to forget this solitude will make
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you melancholy, mad I will, he answered, half consciously, for sleep
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was overmastering him. I turned to go, and he looked after me.
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When I had touched the latch, I dropped it, and, coming back
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to the bed, held out my hand. He grasped it with both his
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as he rose to a sitting posture, and I said my good night,
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trying to cheer him. Heart, man, heart, there is work in
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this world for you to do, Jacob Settle. You can wear those white
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robes yet and pass through that gate of steel. Then I left him.
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A week after I found his cottage deserted, and on asking at the works,
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was told that he had gone north. No one exactly knew whither.
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Two years afterwards, I was staying for a few days with my friend doctor
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Monroe in Glasgow. He was a busy man and could not spare much time
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for going about with me, so I spent my days in excursions to the
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truss Acts and Loch Katrine and down the Clyde. On the second last evening
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of my stay, I came back somewhat later than I had arranged, but
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found that my host was late too. The maid told me that he had
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been sent for to the hospital a case of accident at the gas works,
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and the dinner was postponed an hour, so, telling her I would stroll
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down to find her master and walk back with him, I went out.
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At the hospital. I found him washing his hands preparatory to starting for home.
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Casually, I asked him what his case was, Oh, the usual
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thing. A rotten rope and men's lives of no account. Two men were
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working in a gusometer when the rope that held their scaffolding broke. It must
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have occurred just before the dinner hour, for no one noticed their absence till
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the men had returned. There was about seven feet of water in the guessometer,
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so they had a hard fight for it. Poor fellows. However,
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one of them was alive, just alive. But we have had a hard
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job to pull him through. It seems that he owes his life to his
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mate, for I have never heard of greater heroism. They swam together while
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their strength lasted. But at the end they were so done up that even
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the lights above and the men slung with ropes coming down to help them,
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could not keep them up. But one of them stood on the bottom and
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held up his comrade over his head, and those few breaths made all the
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difference between life and death. They were a shocking sight when they were taken
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out, for that water is like a purple dye. With the gas and
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the tar, the man upstairs looked as if he had been washed in blood.
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Ugh, and the other oh, he's worse still. But he must
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have been a very noble fellow. That struggle under the water must have been
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fearful. One can see that by the way the blood has been drawn from
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the extremities. It makes the idea of the stigmata possible. To look at
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him resolution like this, could you would think do anything in the world.
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Ay, it might almost unbar the gates of heaven. Look here, old
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man. It is not a very pleasant sight, especially just before dinner.
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But you are our writer, and this is an odd case. Here is
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something you would not like to miss, for in all human probability, you
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will never see anything like it again. While he was speaking, he had
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brought me into the mortuary of the hospital. On the bier lay a body
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covered with a white sheet which was wrapped close around It. Looks like a
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chrysalis, don't it, I say, Jack. If there be anything in
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the old myth that a soul is typified by a butterfly, well, then
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the one that this chrysalis sent forth was a very noble specimen, and took
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all the sunlight on its wings. See here he uncovered the face horrible.
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Indeed, it looked as though stained with blood. But I knew him at
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once. Jacob Settle, my friend, pulled the winding sheet further down.
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The hands were crossed on the purple breast, as they had been reverently placed
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by some tender hearted person. As I saw them, my heart throbbed with
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a great exultation, for the memory of his harrowing dream rushed across my mind.
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There was no stain now on those poor brave hands, for they were
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blanched white as snow. And somehow, as I looked, I felt that
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the evil dream was all over, that noble soul had won a way through
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the gate. At last, the white robe had now no stain from the
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hands that had put it on end of a dream of red hands.