The Dream

by O. Henry

　　

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MURRAY dreamed a dream. Both psychology and science grope when they would explain to us thestrange adventures of our immaterial selves when wandering in the realmof "Death's twin brother, Sleep." This story will not attempt to beilluminative; it is no more than a record of Murray's dream. One of themost puzzling phases of that strange waking sleep is that dreams whichseem to cover months or even years may take place within a few secondsor minutes. Murray was waiting in his cell in the ward of the condemned. An electricarc light in the ceiling of the corridor shone brightly upon his table.On a sheet of white paper an ant crawled wildly here and there as Murrayblocked its way with an envelope. The electrocution was set for eighto'clock in the evening. Murray smiled at the antics of the wisest ofinsects. There were seven other condemned men in the chamber. Since he had beenthere Murray had seen three taken out to their fate; one gone mad andfighting like a wolf caught in a trap; one, no less mad, offering up asanctimonious lip-service to Heaven; the third, a weakling, collapsedand strapped to a board. He wondered with what credit to himself his ownheart, foot, and face would meet his punishment; for this was hisevening. He thought it must be nearly eight o'clock. Opposite his own in the two rows of cells was the cage of Bonifacio, theSicilian slayer of his betrothed and of two officers who came to arresthim. With him Murray had played checkers many a long hour, each callinghis move to his unseen opponent across the corridor. Bonifacio's great booming voice with its indestructible singing qualitycalled out: "Eh, Meestro Murray; how you feel--all-a right--yes?" "All right, Bonifacio," said Murray steadily, as he allowed the ant tocrawl upon the envelope and then dumped it gently on the stone floor. "Dat's good-a, Meestro Murray. Men like us, we must-a die like-a men. Mytime come nex'-a week. All-a right. Remember, Meestro Murray, I beat-ayou dat las' game of de check. Maybe we play again some-a time. I don'-aknow. Maybe we have to call-a de move damn-a loud to play de check wheredey goin' send us." Bonifacio's hardened philosophy, followed closely by his deafening,musical peal of laughter, warmed rather than chilled Murray's numbedheart. Yet, Bonifacio had until next week to live. The cell-dwellers heard the familiar, loud click of the steel bolts asthe door at the end of the corridor was opened. Three men came toMurray's cell and unlocked it. Two were prison guards; the other was"Len"--no; that was in the old days; now the Reverend Leonard Winston,a friend and neighbor from their barefoot days. "I got them to let me take the prison chaplain's place," he said, as hegave Murray's hand one short, strong grip. In his left hand he held asmall Bible, with his forefinger marking a page. Murray smiled slightly and arranged two or three books and somepenholders orderly on his small table. He would have spoken, but noappropriate words seemed to present themselves to his mind. The prisoners had christened this cellhouse, eighty feet long,twenty-eight feet wide, Limbo Lane. The regular guard of Limbo Lane, animmense, rough, kindly man, drew a pint bottle of whiskey from hispocket and offered it to Murray, saying: "It's the regular thing, you know. All has it who feel like they need abracer. No danger of it becoming a habit with 'em, you see." Murray drank deep into the bottle. "That's the boy!" said the guard. "Just a little nerve tonic, andeverything goes smooth as silk." They stepped into the corridor, and each one of the doomed seven knew.Limbo Lane is a world on the outside of the world; but it had learned,when deprived of one or more of the five senses, to make another sensesupply the deficiency. Each one knew that it was nearly eight, and thatMurray was to go to the chair at eight. There is also in the many LimboLanes an aristocracy of crime. The man who kills in the open, who beatshis enemy or pursuer down, flushed by the primitive emotions and theardor of combat, holds in contempt the human rat, the spider, and thesnake. So, of the seven condemned only three called their farewells to Murrayas he marched down the corridor between the two guards--Bonifacio,Marvin, who had killed a guard while trying to escape from the prison,and Bassett, the train-robber, who was driven to it because theexpress-messenger wouldn't raise his hands when ordered to do so. Theremaining four smoldered, silent, in their cells, no doubt feeling theirsocial ostracism in Limbo Lane society more keenly than they did thememory of their less picturesque offences against the law. Murray wondered at his own calmness and nearly indifference. In theexecution room were about twenty men, a congregation made up of prisonofficers, newspaper reporters, and lookers-on who had succeeded Here, in the very middle of a sentence, the hand of Death interruptedthe telling of O. Henry's last story. He had planned to make this storydifferent from his others, the beginning of a new series in a style hehad not previously attempted. "I want to show the public," he said,"that I can write something new--new for me, I mean--a story withoutslang, a straightforward dramatic plot treated in a way that will comenearer my idea of real story-writing." Before starting to write thepresent story, he outlined briefly how he intended to develop it:Murray, the criminal accused and convicted of the brutal murder of hissweetheart--a murder prompted by jealous rage--at first faces the deathpenalty, calm, and, to all outward appearances, indifferent to his fate.As he nears the electric chair he is overcome by a revulsion of feeling.He is left dazed, stupefied, stunned. The entire scene in thedeath-chamber--the witnesses, the spectators, the preparations forexecution--become unreal to him. The thought flashes through his brainthat a terrible mistake is being made. Why is he being strapped to thechair? What has he done? What crime has he committed? In the few momentswhile the straps are being adjusted a vision comes to him. He dreams adream. He sees a little country cottage, bright, sun-lit, nestling in abower of flowers. A woman is there, and a little child. He speaks withthem and finds that they are his wife, his child--and the cottage theirhome. So, after all, it is a mistake. Some one has frightfully,irretrievably blundered. The accusation, the trial, the conviction, thesentence to death in the electric chair--all a dream. He takes his wifein his arms and kisses the child. Yes, here is happiness. It was adream. Then--at a sign from the prison warden the fatal current isturned on. Murray had dreamed the wrong dream.

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