Ah, Francis Burroughs Lydgate, why dost thou seek not temporary oblivion merely but a sempiternal quietus? Sleep is thy meed, thy due after the long rigours of the day, but why callest thou on thy Maker (with as little ceremony as thou wouldst call on some heathen boy from Cathay for a strong but well-watered potion) for a cessation of his great gift of existence? Existence, thou echoest? It is but that. What more dost thou want? Thou hast work, a wage, a board and a bed. Thou hast the benison of perpetual heat, an endless sojourn in a land where summer dieth not. Thou hast the sun in the morning and the moon, in her several quarters, at night, with often a jewelled canopy of stars that the dweller in cold lands knoweth not. Dost thou want everything? Thou has a dusky doxy who hath borne thee two children and, at this very instant of thy yielding up thy senses to the embrace of sleep, calleth on thy name in the sweet agony of bearing one child more, though, true, it is not thine. Thou hast known the joys of the wedded state, however briefly. Thou hast seen the world and eaten of its strange fruits. In this land of the cannibal didst thou not, from a youthful spirit of bravado, once eat a small roasted portion of human flesh, though thou vomitedst it up at once, and with it almost thy heart? What grumblest thou about? Many men, tied to the rack of pedestrian endeavour in those lands that but rarely see the sun, would envy thee, knew they how colourful an existence thou hadst enjoyed. Why seekest thou to put an end (though, true, it is rather that thou seekest an end to be put, lacking the ancient Roman virtues) to a life that the world would account most rich? Speak from thy soul while thou sleepest. Is it that tonight thou wast involuntarily nagged and pricked to an awareness of fault in thyself that formerly thou hadst thought not to be there? Thou answerest not, turning restless in the hot night. Sleep hath come to thee, and that, if not deep, sufficient for thee not to hear the homecoming of the Italian artisan, thy neighbour. He is not sad. He hath drunk deep and singeth. He waketh his son in the still watches and it shall be accounted no curse to him, save by his son, who lacketh (and let it be shame to him) the traditional filial virtues that first built his Empire. He would in no wise be willing to carry his ancient father (as Aeneas did Anchises) from blazing ruin. And, talking of still watches, he wisheth to know if his son hath seen his watch, gift of his own doxy, swarter than thine but less faithful, on the Middle Sea. His son affirmeth that he hath not seen it for many hours. The father singeth loud, old songs of Italy. He is happy. He hath little money. He is burdened with wife and daughter and with a son. He hath, as hath been said already, a mistress who is too well-favoured to be trusted in a land of flashing eyes and strong urges. He hath much to complain of, but he is happier than thou. Why canst thou not be like him?
Thou hast a sense of guilt, meseemeth, which thy neighbour lacketh. Thy neighbour is saved. He hath thrown his guilt on to the shoulders of One who will bear the guilt of all mankind, and that gladly. And, indeed, thou feelest that thy failure in thy past ambitions, the enemies about thee, are not the random bestowings of a malign and potent destiny. Was there not something in thy past, some sin, which, like Cain, thou wanderest through distant lands to forget? We shall not know till thou speakest, and speak thou wilt not.
Thy Italian neighbours, having spent some of the night in loud and rapid altercation in their own musical tongue, are now most still in sleep. The father snoreth and the son at times calleth out from the prison of his slumber some Italian name or other, belike a woman's. But thou snorest not and no woman's name escapes thy open lips.
What of the night? The moon moveth over trees and plants of outlandish name, over the dwellings of Christian and Mussulman, over the lowly huts of paynims, fire-worshippers, adorers of wood-nymphs and water-goblin, them who worship nothing but their own fat, and those, like thee, who worship nothing at all. Dogs roam the empty streets, dogs that call no man master, that lick no boot and are collarless, answering to no name. They are not unlike thee, except that thou hast a name and art alone. For a moment thou thinkest thou art not alone, for thou huggest thy bolster, which men call a Dutch wife in some parts. And the night moveth on and soon in the black oven of the east, the fire will be lighted and the long cooking of the day begin.
But stay. Is it hope that cooleth? Is it sweet water coming to refresh your soul? For a wind shaketh the louvers and the trees are writhing in that wind. The parched grass looks up to be fed. Is it rain? Is it indeed rain, long looked-for? Shall the dried-up streams sing again and ride in high pride of water? It looks like it. How cool the air as dawn approaches. With a glory as of thunder and a loud, proud laughing, with a hiss and a roar, here is the rain. The dogs rush panting for shelter under the high-stilted houses. The gutters gurgle. Praised be God, on Whom thou so wantonly and, as it shall turn out, fruitlessly calledst, for the dry land drinks. How wilt thou get to work? The taxis will be doing a roaring trade in the town itself, taking the little ones to school. None empty will pass down this road. The Italian father has no worry, for he will stay in bed. The son will walk, arriving drenched, but his shirt will dry off him for he worketh naked in the temple of the Mussulman. Only thou wilt arrive, collar-and-tied and creased-trousered, in unseemly wetness at thine office, unless some man will give thee a lift.
Do not worry about that now. Sleep. The dawn is rising in pain, like a man trying to get over a wall. The morning glory will be obscured. Sleep. Time enough to worry when you, like the dawn, rise. Painfully. Thou smokest too much.
Sleep recedes. He dreams that he is in hell and that Lazarus (though he is indeed no Dives) comes at regular intervals and drops water in his open mouth. He wakes to find the roof leaking. The cigarettes on his side-table are soaked. He has no others. Water is dripping on him with the regularity of a Roman water-clock that thinks the Empire will last for ever. God curse them all.