The room in the tower, and other storiesBenson, E. F. (Edward Frederic)
General
The room in the tower, and other stories
Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic)
English fiction -- 20th century; Ghost stories, English; Horror tales, English; Short stories, English
Certainly I had a delightful room for my twelve francs a day. There
were, as I have said, two beds in it, on one of which were already laid
out my dress-clothes, while night-things were disposed on the other.
There were two windows, between which stood a large washing-stand, with
plenty of room on it; a sofa with its back to the light stood
conveniently near the pipes of central heating, there were a couple of
good arm-chairs, a writing table, and, rarest of luxuries, another
table, so that every time one had breakfast it was not necessary to pile
up a drift of books and papers to make room for the tray. My window
looked east, and sunset still flamed on the western faces of the virgin
snows, while above, in spite of the dejected barometer, the sky was bare
of clouds, and a thin slip of pale crescent moon was swung high among
the stars that still burned dimly in these first moments of their
kindling. Tea came up for me without delay, and, as I ate, I regarded my
surroundings with extreme complacency.
Then, quite suddenly and without cause, I saw that the disposition of
the beds would never do; I could not possibly sleep in the bed that my
servant had chosen for me, and without pause I jumped up, transferred my
dress clothes to the other bed, and put my night things where they had
been. It was done breathlessly almost, and not till then did I ask
myself why I had done it. I found I had not the slightest idea. I had
merely felt that I could not sleep in the other bed. But having made the
change I felt perfectly content.
My letters took me an hour or so to finish, and I had yawned and blinked
considerably over the last one or two, in part from their inherent
dullness, in part from quite natural sleepiness. For I had been in the
train for twenty-four hours, and was fresh to these bracing airs which
so conduce to appetite, activity, and sleep, and as there was still an
hour before I need dress, I lay down on my sofa with a book for excuse,
but the intention to slumber as reason. And consciousness ceased as if a
tap had been turned off.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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