The Crystal Cup

by Bram Stoker

　　I. The Dream-BirthThe blue waters touch the walls of the palace; I can hear theirsoft, lapping wash against the marble whenever I listen. Far outat sea I can see the waves glancing in the sunlight, ever-smiling,ever-glancing, ever-sunny. Happy waves!-happy in your gladness,thrice happy that ye are free!I rise from my work and spring up the wall till I reach theembrasure. I grasp the corner of the stonework and draw myself uptill I crouch in the wide window. Sea, sea, out away as far as myvision extends. There I gaze till my eyes grow dim; and in thedimness of my eyes my spirit finds its sight. My soul flies on thewings of memory away beyond the blue, smiling sea-away beyond theglancing waves and the gleaming sails, to the land I call my home.As the minutes roll by, my actual eyesight seems to be restored,and I look round me in my old birth-house. The rude simplicity ofthe dwelling comes back to me as something new. There I see my oldbooks and manuscripts and pictures, and there, away on their oldshelves, high up above the door, I see my first rude efforts in art.How poor they seem to me now! And yet, were I free, I would notgive the smallest of them for all I now possess. Possess? How Idream.The dream calls me back to waking life. I spring down from mywindow-seat and work away frantically, for every line I draw onpaper, every new form that springs on the plaster, brings menearer freedom. I will make a vase whose beauty will put to shamethe glorious works of Greece in her golden prime! Surely a lovelike mine and a hope like mine must in time make some form ofbeauty spring to life! When He beholds it he will exclaim withrapture, and will order my instant freedom. I can forget my hate,and the deep debt of revenge which I owe him when I think ofliberty-even from his hands. Ah! then on the wings of the morningshall I fly beyond the sea to my home-her home-and clasp her to myarms, never more to be separated!But, oh Spirit of Day! if she should be-No, no, I cannot think ofit, or I shall go mad. Oh Time, Time! maker and destroyer of men'sfortunes, why hasten so fast for others whilst thou laggest so slowlyfor me? Even now my home may have become desolate, and she-my brideof an hour-may sleep calmly in the cold earth. Oh this suspense willdrive me mad! Work, work! Freedom is before me; Aurora is the rewardof my labour!So I rush to my work; but to my brain and hand, heated alike, nofire or no strength descends. Half mad with despair, I beat myselfagainst the walls of my prison, and then climb into the embrasure,and once more gaze upon the ocean, but find there no hope. And so Istay till night, casting its pall of blackness over nature, puts thepossibility of effort away from me for yet another day.So my days go on, and grow to weeks and months. So will they growto years, should life so long remain an unwelcome guest within me;for what is man without hope? and is not hope nigh dead within thisweary breast?***Last night, in my dreams, there came, like an inspiration from theDay-Spirit, a design for my vase.All day my yearning for freedom-for Aurora, or news of her-hadincreased tenfold, and my heart and brain were on fire. Madly I beatmyself, like a caged bird, against my prison-bars. Madly I leaped tomy window-seat, and gazed with bursting eyeballs out on the free,open sea. And there I sat till my passion had worn itself out; andthen I slept, and dreamed of thee, Aurora-of thee and freedom. In myears I heard again the old song we used to sing together, when aschildren we wandered on the beach; when, as lovers, we saw the sunsink in the ocean, and I would see its glory doubled as it shone inthine eyes, and was mellowed against thy cheek; and when, as mybride, you clung to me as my arms went round you on that deserttongue of land whence rushed that band of sea-robbers that tore meaway. Oh! how my heart curses those men-not men, but fiends! But onesolitary gleam of joy remains from that dread encounter,-that mystruggle stayed those hell-hounds, and that, ere I was stricken down,this right hand sent one of them to his home. My spirit rises as Ithink of that blow that saved thee from a life worse than death. Withthe thought I feel my cheeks burning, and my forehead swelling withmighty veins. My eyes burn, and I rush wildly round my prison-house,'0h! for one of my enemies, that I might dash out his brains againstthese marble walls, and trample his heart out as he lay before me!'These walls would spare him not. They are pitiless, alas! I know toowell. '0h, cruel mockery of kindness, to make a palace a prison, andto taunt a captive's aching heart with forms of beauty and sculpturedmarble!' Wondrous, indeed, are these sculptured walls! Men call thempassing fair; but oh, Aurora! with thy beauty ever before my eyes,what form that men call lovely can be fair to me? Like him who gazessun-wards, and then sees no light on earth, from the glory that dyeshis iris, so thy beauty or its memory has turned the fairest thingsof earth to blackness and deformity.In my dream last night, when in my ears came softly, like musicstealing across the waters from afar, the old song we used to singtogether, then to my brain, like a ray of light, came an idea whosegrandeur for a moment struck me dumb. Before my eyes grew a vase ofsuch beauty that I knew my hope was born to life, and that the GreatSpirit had placed my foot on the ladder that leads from this mypalace-dungeon to freedom and to thee. Today I have got a block ofcrystal-for only in such pellucid substance can I body forth mydream-and have commenced my work.I found at first that my hand had lost its cunning, and I wasbeginning to despair, when, like the memory of a dream, there cameback in my ears the strains of the old song. I sang it softly tomyself, and as I did so I grew calmer; but oh! how differently thesong sounded to me when thy voice, Aurora, rose not in unison withmy own! But what avails pining? To work! To work! Every touch of mychisel will bring me nearer thee.***My vase is daily growing nearer to completion. I sing as I work,and my constant song is the one I love so well. I can hear the echoof my voice in the vase; and as I end, the wailing song note isprolonged in sweet, sad music in the crystal cup. I listen, eardown, and sometimes I weep as I listen, so sadly comes the echo tomy song. Imperfect though it be, my voice makes sweet music, andits echo in the cup guides my hand towards perfection as I work.Would that thy voice rose and fell with mine, Aurora, and then theworld would behold a vase of such beauty as never before woke upthe slumbering fires of mans love for what is fair; for if I dosuch work in sadness, imperfect as I am in my solitude and sorrow,what would I do in joy, perfect when with thee? I know that my workis good as an artist, and I feel that it is as a man; and the cupitself, as it daily grows in beauty, gives back a clearer echo.Oh! if I worked in joy how gladly would it give back our voices!Then would we hear an echo and music such as mortals seldom hear;but now the echo, like my song, seems imperfect. I grow dailyweaker; but still I work on-work with my whole soul-for am I notworking for freedom and for thee?***My work is nearly done. Day by day, hour by hour, the vase growsmore finished. Ever clearer comes the echo whilst I sing; eversofter, ever more sad and heart-rending comes the echo of the wailat the end of the song. Day by day I grow weaker and weaker; stillI work on with all my soul. At night the thought comes to me, whilstI think of thee, that I will never see thee more-that I breathe outmy life into the crystal cup, and that it will last there when Iam gone.So beautiful has it become, so much do I love it, that I couldgladly die to be maker of such a work, were it not for thee-for mylove for thee, and my hope of thee, and my fear for thee, and myanguish for thy grief when thou knowest I am gone.***My work requires but few more touches. My life is slowly ebbingaway, and I feel that with my last touch my life will pass out forever into the cup. Till that touch is given I must not die-I will notdie. My hate has passed away. So great are my wrongs that revenge ofmine would be too small a compensation for my woe. I leave revengeto a juster and a mightier than I. Thee, oh Aurora, I will await inthe land of flowers, where thou and I will wander, never more topart, never more! Ah, never more! Farewell, Aurora-Aurora-Aurora!II. The Feast of BeautyThe Feast of Beauty approaches rapidly, yet hardly so fast as myroyal master wishes. He seems to have no other thought than to havethis feast greater and better than any ever held before. Five summersago his Feast of Beauty was nobler than all held in his sires reigntogether; yet scarcely was it over, and the rewards given to thevictors, when he conceived the giant project whose success is to betested when the moon reaches her full. It was boldly chosen andboldly done; chosen and done as boldly as the project of a monarchshould be. But still I cannot think that it will end well. Thisyearning after completeness must be unsatisfied in the end-thisdesire that makes a monarch fling his kingly justice to the winds,and strive to reach his Mecca over a desert of blighted hopes andlost lives. But hush! I must not dare to think ill of my master orhis deeds; and besides, walls have ears. I must leave alone thesedangerous topics, and confine my thoughts within proper bounds.The moon is waxing quickly, and with its fulness comes the Feastof Beauty, whose success as a whole rests almost solely on mywatchfulness and care; for if the ruler of the feast should failin his duty, who could fill the void? Let me see what arts arerepresented, and what works compete. All the arts will have trophies:poetry in its various forms, and prose-writing; sculpture withcarving in various metals, and glass, and wood, and ivory, andengraving gems, and setting jewels; painting on canvas, and glass,and wood, and stone and metal; music, vocal and instrumental; anddancing. If that woman will but sing, we will have a real triumphof music; but she appears sickly too. All our best artists eitherget ill or die, although we promise them freedom or rewards orboth if they succeed.Surely never yet was a Feast of Beauty so fair or so richlydowered as this which the full moon shall behold and hear; butah! the crowning glory of the feast will be the crystal cup. Neveryet have these eyes beheld such a form of beauty, such a wondrousmingling of substance and light. Surely some magic power must havehelped to draw such loveliness from a cold block of crystal. I mustbe careful that no harm happens the vase. To-day when I touched it,it gave forth such a ringing sound that my heart jumped with fearlest it should sustain any injury. Henceforth, till I deliver it upto my master, no hand but my own shall touch it lest any harm shouldhappen to it.Strange story has that cup. Born to life in the cell of a captivetorn from his artist home beyond the sea, to enhance the splendourof a feast by his labour-seen at work by spies, and traced andfollowed till a chance-cruel chance for him-gave him into the handsof the emissaries of my master. He too, poor moth, fluttered aboutthe flame: the name of freedom spurred him on to exertion till hewore away his life. The beauty of that cup was dearly bought forhim. Many a man would forget his captivity whilst he worked at sucha piece of loveliness; but he appeared to have some sorrow at hisheart, some sorrow so great that it quenched his pride.How he used to rave at first! How he used to rush about hischamber, and then climb into the embrasure of his window, and gazeout away over the sea! Poor captive! perhaps over the sea some onewaited for his coming who was dearer to him than many cups, even manycups as beautiful as this, if such could be on earth. . . . Well,well, we must all die soon or late, and who dies first escapes themore sorrow, perhaps, who knows? How, when he had commenced the cup,he used to sing all day long, from the moment the sun shot its firstfiery arrow into the retreating hosts of night-clouds, till theshades of evening advancing drove the lingering sunbeams into thewest-and always the same song!How he used to sing, all alone! Yet sometimes I could almostimagine I heard not one voice from his chamber, but two. . . . Nomore will it echo again from the wall of a dungeon, or from ahillside in free air. No more will his eyes behold the beauty of hiscrystal cup.It was well he lived to finish it. Often and often have I trembledto think of his death, as I saw him day by day grow weaker as heworked at the unfinished vase. Must his eyes never more behold thebeauty that was born of his soul? Oh, never more! Oh Death, grimKing of Terrors, how mighty is thy sceptre! All-powerful is the waveof thy hand that summons us in turn to thy kingdom away beyond thepoles!Would that thou, poor captive, hadst lived to behold thy triumph,for victory will be thine at the Feast of Beauty such as man neverbefore achieved. Then thou mightst have heard the shout that hailsthe victor in the contest, and the plaudits that greet him as hepasses out, a free man, through the palace gates. But now thy cupwill come to light amid the smiles of beauty and rank and power,whilst thou liest there in thy lonely chamber, cold as the marbleof its walls.And, after all, the feast will be imperfect, since the victorscannot all be crowned. I must ask my master's direction as to howa blank place of a competitor, should he prove a victor, is to befilled up. So late? I must see him ere the noontide hour of restbe past.***Great Spirit! how I trembled as my master answered my question!I found him in his chamber, as usual in the noontide. He was lyingon his couch disrobed, half-sleeping; and the drowsy zephyr, scentedwith rich odours from the garden, wafted through the windows ateither side by the fans, lulled him to complete repose. The darkenedchamber was cool and silent. From the vestibule came the murmuring ofmany fountains, and the pleasant splash of falling waters. 'Oh,happy,' said I, in my heart, 'oh, happy great King, that has suchpleasures to enjoy!' The breeze from the fans swept over the stringsof the AEolian harps, and a sweet, confused, happy melody arose likethe murmuring of children's voices singing afar off in the valleys,and floating on the wind.As I entered the chamber softly, with muffled foot-fall and pent-inbreath, I felt a kind of awe stealing over me. To me who was born andhave dwelt all my life within the precincts of the court-to me whotalk daily with my royal master, and take his minutest directions asto the coming feast-to me who had all my life looked up to my king asto a spirit, and had venerated him as more than mortal-came a feelingof almost horror; for my master looked then, in his quiet chamber,half-sleeping amid the drowsy music of the harps and fountains, morelike a common man than a God. As the thought came to me I shudderedin affright, for it seemed to me that I had been guilty of sacrilege.So much had my veneration for my royal master become a part of mynature, that but to think of him as another man seemed like theanarchy of my own soul.I came beside the couch, and watched him in silence. He seemed tobe half-listening to the fitful music; and as the melody swelled anddied away his chest rose and fell as he breathed in unison with thesound.After a moment or two he appeared to become conscious of thepresence of some one in the room, although by no motion of hisface could I see that he heard any sound, and his eyes were shut.He opened his eyes, and, seeing me, asked, 'Was all right aboutthe Feast of Beauty?' for that is the subject ever nearest to histhoughts. I answered that all was well, but that I had come to askhis royal pleasure as to how a vacant place amongst the competitorswas to be filled up. He asked, 'How vacant?' and on my telling him,'from death,' he asked again, quickly, 'Was the work finished?' WhenI told him that it was, he lay back again on his couch with a sighof relief, for he had half arisen in his anxiety as he asked thequestion. Then he said, after a minute, 'All the competitors mustbe present at the feast.' 'All?' said I. 'All,' he answered again,'alive or dead; for the old custom must be preserved, and the victorscrowned.' He stayed still for a minute more, and then said, slowly,'Victors or martyrs.' And I could see that the kingly spirit wascoming back to him.Again he went on. 'This will be my last Feast of Beauty; and allthe captives shall be set free. Too much sorrow has sprung alreadyfrom my ambition. Too much injustice has soiled the name of king.'He said no more, but lay still and closed his eyes. I could seeby the working of his hands and the heaving of his chest that someviolent emotion troubled him, and the thought arose, 'He is a man,but he is yet a king; and, though a king as he is, still happinessis not for him. Great Spirit of Justice! thou metest out hispleasures and his woes to man, to king and slave alike! Thoulovest best to whom thou givest peace!'Gradually my master grew more calm, and at length sunk into agentle slumber; but even in his sleep he breathed in unison withthe swelling murmur of the harps.'To each is given,' said I gently, 'something in common with theworld of actual things. Thy life, oh King, is bound by chains ofsympathy to the voice of Truth, which is Music! Tremble, lest inthe presence of a master-strain thou shouldst feel thy littleness,and die!' and I softly left the room.III. The Story of the MoonbeamSlowly I creep along the bosom of the waters.Sometimes I look back as I rise upon a billow, and see behindme many of my kin sitting each upon a wave-summit as upon a throne.So I go on for long, a power that I wist not forcing me onward,without will or purpose of mine.At length, as I rise upon a mimic wave, I see afar a hazy lightthat springs from a vast palace, through whose countless windowsflame lamps and torches. But at the first view, as if my coming hadbeen the signal, the lights disappear in an instant.Impatiently I await what may happen; and as I rise with eachheart-beat of the sea, I look forward to where the torches hadgleamed. Can it be a deed of darkness that shuns the light?***The time has come when I can behold the palace without waitingto mount upon the waves. It is built of white marble, and risessteep from the brine. Its sea-front is glorious with columns andstatues; and from the portals the marble steps sweep down, broadand wide to the waters, and below them, down as deep as I can see.No sound is heard, no light is seen. A solemn silence abounds,a perfect calm.Slowly I climb the palace walls, my brethren following as soldiersup a breach. I slide along the roofs, and as I look behind me wallsand roofs are glistening as with silver. At length I meet withsomething smooth and hard and translucent; but through it I passand enter a vast hall, where for an instant I hang in mid-air andwonder.My coming has been the signal for such a burst of harmony asbrings back to my memory the music of the spheres as they rushthrough space; and in the full-swelling anthem of welcome I feelthat I am indeed a sun-spirit, a child of light, and that this ishomage to my master.I look upon the face of a great monarch, who sits at the headof a banquet-table. He has turned his head upwards and backwards,and looks as if he had been awaiting my approach. He rises andfronts me with the ringing out of the welcome-song, and all theothers in the great hall turn towards me as well. I can see theireyes gleaming. Down along the immense table, laden with plate andglass and flowers, they stand holding each a cup of ruby wine, withwhich they pledge the monarch when the song is ended, as they drinksuccess to him and to the 'Feast of Beauty.'I survey the hall. An immense chamber, with marble walls coveredwith bas-reliefs and frescoes and sculptured figures, and panelledby great columns that rise along the surface and support adome-ceiling painted wondrously; in its centre the glass lanternby which I entered.On the walls are hung pictures of various forms and sizes, anddown the centre of the table stretches a raised platform on whichare placed works of art of various kinds.At one side of the hall is a dais on which sit persons of bothsexes with noble faces and lordly brows, but all wearing the sameexpression-care tempered by hope. All these hold scrolls in theirhands.At the other side of the hall is a similar dais, on which sitothers fairer to earthly view, less spiritual and more marked bysurface-passion. They hold music-scores. All these look more joyousthan those on the other platform, all save one, a woman, who sitswith downcast face and dejected mien, as of one without hope. As mylight falls at her feet she looks up, and I feel happy. The sympathybetween us has called a faint gleam of hope to cheer that poor paleface.Many are the forms of art that rise above the banquet-table, andall are lovely to behold. I look on all with pleasure one by one,till I see the last of them at the end of the table away from themonarch, and then all the others seem as nothing to me. What isthis that makes other forms of beauty seem as nought when comparedwith it, when brought within the radius of its lustre? A crystalcup, wrought with such wondrous skill that light seems to lose itsindividual glory as it shines upon it and is merged in its beauty.'0h Universal Mother, let me enter there. Let my life be merged inits beauty, and no more will I regret my sun-strength hidden deep inthe chasms of my moon-mother. Let me live there and perish there,and I will be joyous whilst it lasts, and content to pass into thegreat vortex of nothingness to be born again when the glory of thecup has fled.'Can it be that my wish is granted, that I have entered the cup andbecome a part of its beauty? 'Great Mother, I thank thee.'Has the cup life? or is it merely its wondrous perfectness thatmakes it tremble, like a beating heart, in unison with the ebband flow, the great wave-pulse of nature? To me it feels as if ithad life.I look through the crystal walls and see at the end of the table,isolated from all others, the figure of a man seated. Are thosecords that bind his limbs? How suits that crown of laurel thosewide, dim eyes, and that pallid hue? It is passing strange. ThisFeast of Beauty holds some dread secrets, and sees some wondroussights.I hear a voice of strange, rich sweetness, yet wavering-the voiceof one almost a king by nature. He is standing up; I see him throughmy palace-wall. He calls a name and sits down again.Again I hear a voice from the platform of scrolls, the Throne ofBrows; and again I look and behold a man who stands trembling yetflushed, as though the morning light shone bright upon his soul.He reads in cadenced measure a song in praise of my moon-mother, theFeast of Beauty, and the king. As he speaks, he trembles no more,but seems inspired, and his voice rises to a tone of power andgrandeur, and rings back from walls and dome. I hear his wordsdistinctly, though saddened in tone, in the echo from my crystalhome. He concludes and sits down, half-fainting, amid a whirlwindof applause, every note, every beat of which is echoed as the wordshad been.Again the monarch rises and calls 'Aurora,' that she may sing forfreedom. The name echoes in the cup with a sweet, sad sound. So sad,so despairing seems the echo, that the hall seems to darken and thescene to grow dim.'Can a sun-spirit mourn, or a crystal vessel weep?'She, the dejected one, rises from her seat on the Throne ofSound, and all eyes turn upon her save those of the pale one,laurel-crowned. Thrice she essays to begin, and thrice noughtcomes from her lips but a dry, husky sigh, till an old man whohas been moving round the hall settling all things, cries out,in fear lest she should fail, 'Freedom!'The word is re-echoed from the cup. She hears the sound, turnstowards it and begins.Oh, the melody of that voice! And yet it is not perfect alone;for after the first note comes an echo from the cup that swells inunison with the voice, and the two sounds together, seem as if onestrain came ringing sweet from the lips of the All-Father himself.So sweet it is, that all throughout the hall sit spell-bound, andscarcely dare to breathe.In the pause after the first verses of the song, I hear the voiceof the old man speaking to a comrade, but his words are unheard byany other, 'Look at the king. His spirit seems lost in a trance ofmelody. Ah! I fear me some evil: the nearer the music approaches toperfection the more rapt he becomes. I dread lest a perfect noteshall prove his death-call.' His voice dies away as the singercommences the last verse.Sad and plaintive is the song; full of feeling and tender love,but love overshadowed by grief and despair. As it goes on the voiceof the singer grows sweeter and more thrilling, more real; and thecup, my crystal time-home, vibrates more and more as it gives backthe echo. The monarch looks like one entranced, and no movement iswithin the hall. . . . The song dies away in a wild wail that seemsto tear the heart of the singer in twain; and the cup vibrates stillmore as it gives back the echo. As the note, long-swelling, reachesits highest, the cup, the Crystal Cup, my wondrous home, the gift ofthe All-Father, shivers into millions of atoms, and passes away.Ere I am lost in the great vortex I see the singer throw up herarms and fall, freed at last, and the King sitting, glory-faced, butpallid with the hue of Death.