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Even if gas-masks were worn, it would be most difficult to
destroy the machine as it descended, for it travels with incredible
speed in its descent and, moreover, the terrible creatures who man the
thing would see that enemies lurked near and would find some means of
destroying them, or by the mysterious magnet force they control, would
draw even the heaviest cannon to the machine as an ordinary magnet draws
needles or iron filings. So if the thing is to be destroyed, it must be
done as the machine emerges from the crater. Would to God that I could
tell where the crater is, but beyond feeling sure it is at the summit of
an Andean peak, I have no means of locating it. “But I was telling of what occurred on that tenth day when the spherical
airship was projected from my sight by the blast of steam. As the
machine vanished, the women who had watched its departure, returned to
their city, and I swept the landscape with my glasses, wondering at the
bleak, terrible scenery and bizarre colors. * * * * *
“As I focussed the binoculars upon a level plateau, perhaps a mile from
where the _Chiriqui_ rested, I gasped in surprise. Clearly defined, lay
the remnants of what had once been a steamship! Had I given the matter
thought, I might have known that the _Chiriqui_ was not the first vessel
to have fallen a victim to these awful beings; but the sight of another
ship’s skeleton came to me as a terrific shock. As nearly as I could
judge, the vessel had been dismantled, for only the great steel frame
remained, with the mighty boilers and other portions of the ship
scattered about, and gruesomely like some mammoth creature lying
disemboweled upon the earth. “I was consumed with a mad desire to visit that pathetic wreck, but I
knew not to what dangers I would be exposed, once I left the security of
my ship. Not a being was in sight, however, and carefully I studied the
land, visually measuring the relative distances between myself and the
wreck, and between the city and the route I must traverse. Having
already observed that the giantesses moved slowly and cumbrously on
foot, I at last decided that even if they attempted to intercept me I
could regain the _Chiriqui_ before I was overtaken, so I threw caution
to the winds and prepared to undertake my hazardous journey. Slinging
the loaded rifle on my back, with the revolver at my belt, and still
further arming myself with a keen-edged fireaxe, I hunted up the pilot’s
ladder, lowered it over the lowest side of the ship,--which was also the
side farthest from the city,--and clambering down the _Chiriqui’s_ lofty
sides, leaped down upon the ground. To my amazement, I landed in a dense
jungle of dry, tough vegetation which rose to my shoulders. From the
deck, looking directly downwards, I had thought this dull-green growth a
short, wiry grass, and, of course, in its relative proportion to the
gigantic women, it was no higher than ordinary grass to a normal human
being. It was a wonderful example of the theory of relativity, but my
mind was not interested in scientific matters at the time, and I merely
gave thanks that the miniature jungle,--which I saw was composed of
giant lichens--would afford me cover through which I might sneak in
safety, and with little chance of detection. “Without much difficulty I made my way to the other vessel, and found
her even more dissected than I had supposed. Why the denizens of the
place had torn her to bits I did not then know, but certain portions of
her machinery and fittings had been left intact, and, as I examined
these, I made another and most astounding discovery. Deeply engraved
upon a brass plate was the ship’s name ‘_U. S. S. Cyclops!_’ For a space
I stood staring, scarcely able to believe my eyes. Here then was the
solution to that mystery of the sea, the disappearance of the collier,
as laden with manganese, she vanished without word or trace when off the
Barbados during the World War. No doubt, I thought, many a mystery of
the sea had been caused by the damnable work of these beings with their
infernal machine. But why, for what reason, did they capture ships? Why
did they carry off the unconscious persons upon the vessels? And why did
they tear the vessels apart? It was all a mystery which, in all its
horrible, gruesome, ghoulish details I was soon to solve. “There was nothing more to be learned from the remains of the _Cyclops_,
and in safety I returned to the _Chiriqui_ to find, to my surprise and
terror, that a gang of the monstrous females had boarded the ship in my
absence and were stripping her of everything. But as they caught sight
of me, all threw down whatever they had and fled precipitately, leaving
me once more in undisputed possession of the ship. I was relieved at
this, for it was obvious that I had no need to fear the creatures. By
now, too, I had formulated a theory to account for this strange dread of
a being who was a puny, miserable thing compared to them. Unquestionably
my gas-mask rendered me a most grotesque and unknown creature in their
eyes. My remaining alive and active while all others upon the ship had
succumbed to the noxious gas had probably caused them to think that I
was a supernatural being. The fact that I could go about and breathe the
sulphur-laden air would cause them to regard me with even greater wonder
and superstition, and, as I found later, the fact that I was never seen
to eat, confirmed their belief that I was some mysterious being against
whom their gases and their deviltries were of no avail. “I had not much time to devote to such matters, however. Soon after
regaining the _Chiriqui_ I heard excited cries from the land, and
looking over the ship’s rails, I found an immense crowd had gathered
near the empty cradle of the airship, and that all were gazing upward. Following their example, I stared into the greenish void and instantly
understood. Descending rapidly towards the plain, came the great sphere,
and, suspended below it, was the hull of another captive ship. And as I
focussed my glasses upon this, I rubbed my eyes and gaped. The dull gray
color, the lines, the raking funnels, the barbettes and gun muzzles left
no room for doubt. Incredible as it seemed, the captive vessel was a
warship! What hope then had my fellow men upon earth? What chance was
there if these giant creatures could send forth their flaming machine,
and by it, capture the fastest, most powerful war-vessels--all within
the space of a few hours? “Rapidly the machine and its burden approached, and presently descended
gently dropping the war vessel close to the _Chiriqui_. My worst fears
were confirmed. The vessel was an American destroyer, the _McCracken_,
and I knew that scores of my countrymen must lie unconscious upon her,
and in a few moments would be carried off to some unknown horrible fate. What that fate was I had already surmised. | Verrill, A. Hyatt (Alpheus Hyatt) - A voice from the inner world |
That first demonstration of
the ferocious cannibalism of the giantesses upon the _Chiriqui’s_ deck
had been enough to make my blood run cold. “But I had not yet guessed even a fraction of the true horror of it. Scarcely had the _McCracken_ been dropped upon the earth, when the women
swarmed upon her, and once more I saw the creatures gathering the inert
forms of men and carrying them to the city. And rapidly, too, they
commenced dismantling and tearing the destroyer into bits. How they had
accomplished this with the _Cyclops_ had puzzled me, but now I witnessed
the process close at hand. From the vicinity of the waterfall, lines or
pipes were led to the vessel’s side; presently there was the roaring
sound of steam; dense clouds of vapor arose from the cataract; the water
ceased to flow, and from the extremities of the lines or tubes
twenty-foot jets of blinding flame shot out. As easily as though made of
wax, the steel sides, the massive beams, the armored barbettes of the
warship melted and were cut by these jets, and as the pieces fell apart,
the spherical airship took a position above the vessel, and by its
magnetic power, lifted tons of the fragments, then sailing off,
deposited them in some spot beyond the city. It was then, as I saw the
ship rapidly dissolving before my eyes, that the inspiration came to me
which may make it possible for me to communicate with the outside world
and may, if God wills, serve to warn my fellow men of the fate which
will overtake them if these terrible creatures are allowed to follow out
their plans. As the jets of flame cut through the _McCracken’s_
superstructure, and the radio antennae fell in a tangled mass across the
deck, I forgot all else and rushed to the wireless room of the
_Chiriqui_. Here was my chance. If the ship’s radio transmitter was
still in working order; if the auxiliary battery was still charged, I
might send out messages which, small as the chances were, might reach
the ears of some of the countless thousands of persons who listened each
night at their receiving sets. I trembled with fear that I would find
the transmitter injured or dismantled. I shook with dread that the
battery might be dead. I felt faint with apprehension that the message,
if sent, might never penetrate the sulphur-laden atmosphere or might
never reach the outer world. And I realized, with a sickening sinking of
my heart, that even if heard my communication might be regarded as a
hoax, and no attention would be given it. But I would do my best. The
radio set had not been molested. Everything was in working order, and I
set myself the task of transmitting my story each night at the same
hour, repeating it over and over again, until the storage batteries are
exhausted, for to get up steam and start the dynamos is beyond my
powers. Had I knowledge of Morse I would send my story by that code, but
I have not, and so--I must cease. For the love of your race and of your
dear ones listen, I beseech you, until I can resume.”
* * * * *
Here the message broke off abruptly, and Frank and I sat staring at each
other, fearing to speak lest we might interrupt or miss the words which
might come, and listening with straining ears at the head-sets. For an
hour we sat there and then, once more the voice spoke. “The doom that I feared is approaching. I have been here for three
months and this will, I know, be my final message. Oh that I could only
be sure that someone has heard my words, that my fate has not been in
vain but has served to warn my fellow beings. But I must hurry on. I
have learned everything of importance. I have watched, studied and have
even learned to understand much of the language of these beings. I found
that there were men. They are puny beings compared to the women, though
ten-foot giants compared to normal men, and they are cowed, abject, mere
slaves of the females. Only enough male children are permitted to
survive to propagate the race. All others are killed. “As they reach manhood only those males of super-intelligence, strength
and virility are permitted to live. The others are destroyed and--yes,
horrible as it sounds, their bodies, like those of the murdered infants
and of the aged, sick or infirm, are devoured. And as fast as the males
attain middle age their lives are forfeited. Long ago these beings
subsisted upon the few wild creatures which roamed their land; but long
ago all these were exhausted and human flesh became the only meat. There
is no vegetable food, and for a time the sacrificed surplus males, and
the aged, provided food for the race. But gradually the male births
decreased, female children preponderated, and with the increased
population resulting, the males were too few to nourish the others. Then, through what damnable accident or design I do not know, the
creatures went forth in their airship and discovered the teeming
millions of human beings on earth. “But the bulk of humanity was and still is safe from them, at least
until new means of attacking mankind are devised, for the globular
airship cannot approach the land. The very power it uses to lift the
greatest steamships and carry them off, draws the machine to the earth
and holds it fast. But above water, which acts as an insulator
apparently, the apparatus can operate at will. And they have a two-fold
purpose in capturing ships. All the available metal in this land was
exhausted in constructing two of the spherical machines. One of these
never returned from its first trip, and only the one remains. To
construct more, these giant women plan to use the metal salvaged from
captured ships, until a vast fleet of the infernal things is ready to go
forth and wipe the seas clean of ships and human beings. And the bodies
of the men and women, struck down by the gas, are to serve as food for
these demons in human form. “This is the most horrible, blood-curdling thing of all. Rendered
unconscious by the gas, the victims remain in a state of suspended
animation indefinitely, exactly as do grubs, spiders and insects when
stung by certain species of wasps and placed in their nests to provide
food for their young. Stacked in great storage vaults these breathing,
living, but paralyzed human beings are kept, and as needed, are taken
out. “Already they have a supply on hand sufficient to last them for over a
year. Some of the _Cyclops_ company are still preserved; there are over
three hundred from the _Chiriqui_, hundreds from other ships, and the
entire crew of the _McCracken_. “All these things I learned little by little, and mainly through a
friend, for marvelous as it may seem, I have a friend--if friend he can
be called, a miserable, trembling, terrified male, who, doomed to death,
sought to escape his fate and sought refuge with me, dreading my
presence less than his doom, and hoping that such a feared and almost
reverenced being as myself might protect him. | Verrill, A. Hyatt (Alpheus Hyatt) - A voice from the inner world |
For two months he has been
my companion, but he cannot eat anything but meat and the supply of meat
upon the ship is getting low, and sooner or later he must succumb. And
the women, maddened at his escape from their clutches, though not yet
daring to approach too closely to me, are getting bolder. Some time, at
some unguarded moment, they will find the poor fellow alone and will
fall upon him. And in his terror, in an effort to buy his life, he will,
I know, reveal to them that I am but an ordinary mortal, a man who eats
and drinks and who survived the gas by mechanical and not supernatural
means. But I will not be taken alive by these fearful female cannibals. When the time comes, as I know it will, I will blow my brains out, and
though they may devour my body they will not rend me alive. No more
ships have been brought in here since the _McCracken_ was captured. But
this I know is due to the fact that all the energies of these creatures
are being devoted to building additional air machines. This work goes on
in a vast cavern beyond the city where tremendous forces, furnaces with
heat beyond human conception and machines of which we know nothing, are
controlled by the internal steam, the radiant energy and the magnetic
powers of the earth’s core. “And now, again let me implore any and all who may hear my words to give
close attention to what I say, for here again is a means by which
humanity may combat and destroy these ghastly, gigantic cannibals. The
spherical air-machines are helpless from above. Their magnetic or
electrical forces extend only downwards. The gasses they throw out are
heavier than air and descend but cannot ascend, and by means of swift
planes, huge bombs and machine guns, the things can be easily destroyed. And they cannot travel without throwing off the dazzling green light. Only when motionless are they dark. And so they will offer easy marks
and can be readily detected. So, I beseech you who may hear, that the
governments are notified and warned and that a fleet or many fleets of
airplanes properly equipped patrol the seas, and at first sight of one
of the green meteors rise above it and utterly destroy it without mercy. “Wait! I hear a terrified scream.... I am back again at the transmitter. It was the fellow who has been with me. Poor devil! He has met his fate,
but after all it was the custom of his people, and, moreover, he would
have starved to death in a few days. For that matter I, too, face
starvation. The ship’s stock is running low; all the food upon the
_McCracken_ was destroyed in cutting up that vessel, and unless another
ship is captured I will have no food after two weeks more. What a
strange thought! How terrible an idea! That the awful fate of hundreds
of my fellows would be my salvation! But I will never live to die from
hunger. I can hear the terrible screams of my late companion on the deck
outside. God! It is the end! The fellow must have told the enraged
females. His body has been torn to shreds. With bloody hands and reeking
lips they are rushing towards the upper deck where I sit. They are here! This is my last word! God grant that I have been heard! I am about
to----”
Crashing in our ears came the report of a pistol. The End
-----
[1] The message as it came in, was halting, and interrupted, with many
unintelligible words and repetitions, as if the sender were laboring
under an intense strain or was an amateur. For the sake of clarity and
continuity, the communication has been edited and filled in, but not
altered in any detail. [2] The metropolitan papers reported the meteor on the eighteenth and
stated it was observed by those on the _Chiriqui_ on the evening of the
seventeenth, but it must be remembered that the _Chiriqui_ was in the
western Pacific and hence had gained a day in time. [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 1927 issue of | Verrill, A. Hyatt (Alpheus Hyatt) - A voice from the inner world |
E-text prepared by Suzanne Lybarger, Janet Blenkinship, Brian Janes, and
the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(https://www.pgdp.net/)
THE HOUSE OF THE VAMPIRE
by
GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK
Author of
Nineveh and Other Poems
New York
Moffat, Yard & Company
1912
Copyright, 1907, by
Moffat, Yard & Company
New York
Published September, 1907
Reprinted October, 1907
The Premier Press
New York
_To My Mother_
THE HOUSE
OF THE
VAMPIRE
I
The freakish little leader of the orchestra, newly imported from Sicily
to New York, tossed his conductor's wand excitedly through the air,
drowning with musical thunders the hum of conversation and the clatter
of plates. Yet neither his apish demeanour nor the deafening noises that responded
to every movement of his agile body detracted attention from the figure
of Reginald Clarke and the young man at his side as they smilingly wound
their way to the exit. The boy's expression was pleasant, with an inkling of wistfulness, while
the soft glimmer of his lucid eyes betrayed the poet and the dreamer. The smile of Reginald Clarke was the smile of a conqueror. A suspicion
of silver in his crown of dark hair only added dignity to his bearing,
while the infinitely ramified lines above the heavy-set mouth spoke at
once of subtlety and of strength. Without stretch of the imagination one
might have likened him to a Roman cardinal of the days of the Borgias,
who had miraculously stepped forth from the time-stained canvas and
slipped into twentieth century evening-clothes. With the affability of complete self-possession he nodded in response to
greetings from all sides, inclining his head with special politeness to
a young woman whose sea-blue eyes were riveted upon his features with a
look of mingled hate and admiration. The woman, disregarding his silent salutation, continued to stare at him
wild-eyed, as a damned soul in purgatory might look at Satan passing in
regal splendour through the seventy times sevenfold circles of hell. Reginald Clarke walked on unconcernedly through the rows of gay diners,
still smiling, affable, calm. But his companion bethought himself of
certain rumours he had heard concerning Ethel Brandenbourg's mad love
for the man from whose features she could not even now turn her eyes. Evidently her passion was unreciprocated. It had not always been so. There was a time in her career, some years ago in Paris, when it was
whispered that she had secretly married him and, not much later,
obtained a divorce. The matter was never cleared up, as both preserved
an uncompromising silence upon the subject of their matrimonial
experience. Certain it was that, for a space, the genius of Reginald
Clarke had completely dominated her brush, and that, ever since he had
thrown her aside, her pictures were but plagiarisms of her former
artistic self. The cause of the rupture between them was a matter only of surmise; but
the effect it had on the woman testified clearly to the remarkable power
of Reginald Clarke. He had entered her life and, behold! the world was
transfixed on her canvases in myriad hues of transcending radiance; he
had passed from it, and with him vanished the brilliancy of her
colouring, as at sunset the borrowed amber and gold fade from the face
of the clouds. The glamour of Clarke's name may have partly explained the secret of his
charm, but, even in circles where literary fame is no passport, he
could, if he chose, exercise an almost terrible fascination. Subtle and
profound, he had ransacked the coffers of mediæval dialecticians and
plundered the arsenals of the Sophists. Many years later, when the
vultures of misfortune had swooped down upon him, and his name was no
longer mentioned without a sneer, he was still remembered in New York
drawing-rooms as the man who had brought to perfection the art of
talking. Even to dine with him was a liberal education. Clarke's marvellous conversational power was equalled only by his
marvellous style. Ernest Fielding's heart leaped in him at the thought
that henceforth he would be privileged to live under one roof with the
only writer of his generation who could lend to the English language the
rich strength and rugged music of the Elizabethans. Reginald Clarke was a master of many instruments. Milton's mighty organ
was no less obedient to his touch than the little lute of the
troubadour. He was never the same; that was his strength. Clarke's
style possessed at once the chiselled chasteness of a Greek marble
column and the elaborate deviltry of the late Renaissance. At times his
winged words seemed to flutter down the page frantically like Baroque
angels; at other times nothing could have more adequately described his
manner than the timeless calm of the gaunt pyramids. The two men had reached the street. Reginald wrapped his long spring
coat round him. "I shall expect you to-morrow at four," he said. The tone of his voice was deep and melodious, suggesting hidden depths
and cadences. "I shall be punctual." The younger man's voice trembled as he spoke. "I look forward to your coming with much pleasure. I am interested in
you." The glad blood mounted to Ernest's cheeks at praise from the austere
lips of this arbiter of literary elegance. An almost imperceptible smile crept over the other man's features. "I am proud that my work interests you," was all the boy could say. "I think it is quite amazing, but at present," here Clarke drew out a
watch set with jewels, "I am afraid I must bid you good-bye." He held Ernest's hand for a moment in a firm genial grasp, then turned
away briskly, while the boy remained standing open-mouthed. The crowd
jostling against him carried him almost off his feet, but his eyes
followed far into the night the masterful figure of Reginald Clarke,
toward whom he felt himself drawn with every fiber of his body and the
warm enthusiasm of his generous youth. II
With elastic step, inhaling the night-air with voluptuous delight,
Reginald Clarke made his way down Broadway, lying stretched out before
him, bathed in light and pulsating with life. His world-embracing intellect was powerfully attracted by the Giant
City's motley activities. On the street, as in the salon, his magnetic
power compelled recognition, and he stepped through the midst of the
crowd as a Circassian blade cleaves water. After walking a block or two, he suddenly halted before a jeweller's
shop. Arrayed in the window were priceless gems that shone in the glare
of electricity, like mystical serpent-eyes--green, pomegranate and
water-blue. And as he stood there the dazzling radiance before him was
transformed in the prism of his mind into something great and very
wonderful that might, some day, be a poem. Then his attention was diverted by a small group of tiny girls dancing
on the sidewalk to the husky strains of an old hurdy-gurdy. | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
He joined
the circle of amused spectators, to watch those pink-ribboned bits of
femininity swaying airily to and fro in unison with the tune. One
especially attracted his notice--a slim olive-coloured girl from a land
where it is always spring. Her whole being translated into music, with
hair dishevelled and feet hardly touching the ground, the girl suggested
an orange-leaf dancing on a sunbeam. The rasping street-organ,
perchance, brought to her melodious reminiscences of some flute-playing
Savoyard boy, brown-limbed and dark of hair. For several minutes Reginald Clarke followed with keen delight each
delicate curve her graceful limbs described. Then--was it that she grew
tired, or that the stranger's persistent scrutiny embarrassed her?--the
music oozed out of her movements. They grew slower, angular, almost
clumsy. The look of interest in Clarke's eyes died, but his whole form
quivered, as if the rhythm of the music and the dance had mysteriously
entered into his blood. He continued his stroll, seemingly without aim; in reality he followed,
with nervous intensity, the multiform undulations of the populace,
swarming through Broadway in either direction. Like the giant whose
strength was rekindled every time he touched his mother, the earth,
Reginald Clarke seemed to draw fresh vitality from every contact with
life. He turned east along Fourteenth street, where cheap vaudevilles are
strung together as glass-pearls on the throat of a wanton. Gaudy
bill-boards, drenched in clamorous red, proclaimed the tawdry
attractions within. Much to the surprise of the doorkeeper at a
particularly evil-looking music hall, Reginald Clarke lingered in the
lobby, and finally even bought a ticket that entitled him to enter this
sordid wilderness of décolleté art. Street-snipes, a few workingmen,
dilapidated sportsmen, and women whose ruined youth thick layers of
powder and paint, even in this artificial light, could not restore,
constituted the bulk of the audience. Reginald Clarke, apparently
unconscious of the curiosity, surprise and envy that his appearance
excited, seated himself at a table near the stage, ordering from the
solicitous waiter only a cocktail and a programme. The drink he left
untouched, while his eyes greedily ran down the lines of the
announcement. When he had found what he sought, he lit a cigar, paying
no attention to the boards, but studying the audience with cursory
interest until the appearance of Betsy, the Hyacinth Girl. When she began to sing, his mind still wandered. The words of her song
were crude, but not without a certain lilt that delighted the uncultured
ear, while the girl's voice was thin to the point of being unpleasant. When, however, she came to the burden of the song, Clarke's manner
changed suddenly. Laying down his cigar, he listened with rapt
attention, eagerly gazing at her. For, as she sang the last line and
tore the hyacinth-blossoms from her hair, there crept into her voice a
strangely poignant, pathetic little thrill, that redeemed the execrable
faultiness of her singing, and brought the rude audience under her
spell. Clarke, too, was captivated by that tremour, the infinite sadness of
which suggested the plaint of souls moaning low at night, when lust
preys on creatures marked for its spoil. The singer paused. Still those luminous eyes were upon her. She grew
nervous. It was only with tremendous difficulty that she reached the
refrain. As she sang the opening lines of the last stanza, an
inscrutable smile curled on Clarke's lips. She noticed the man's
relentless gaze and faltered. When the burden came, her singing was hard
and cracked: the tremour had gone from her voice. III
Long before the appointed time Ernest walked up and down in front of the
abode of Reginald Clarke, a stately apartment-house overlooking
Riverside Drive. Misshapen automobiles were chasing by, carrying to the cool river's
marge the restlessness and the fever of American life. But the bustle
and the noise seemed to the boy only auspicious omens of the future. Jack, his room-mate and dearest friend, had left him a month ago, and,
for a space, he had felt very lonely. His young and delicate soul found
it difficult to grapple with the vague fears that his nervous brain
engendered, when whispered sounds seemed to float from hidden corners,
and the stairs creaked under mysterious feet. He needed the voice of loving kindness to call him back from the valley
of haunting shadows, where his poet's soul was wont to linger overlong;
in his hours of weakness the light caress of a comrade renewed his
strength and rekindled in his hand the flaming sword of song. And at nightfall he would bring the day's harvest to Clarke, as a
worshipper scattering precious stones, incense and tapestries at the
feet of a god. Surely he would be very happy. And as the heart, at times, leads the
feet to the goal of its desire, while multicoloured dreams, like
dancing-girls, lull the will to sleep, he suddenly found himself
stepping from the elevator-car to Reginald Clarke's apartment. Already was he raising his hand to strike the electric bell when a sound
from within made him pause half-way. "No, there's no help!" he heard Clarke say. His voice had a hard,
metallic clangour. A boyish voice answered plaintively. What the words were Ernest could
not distinctly hear, but the suppressed sob in them almost brought the
tears to his eyes. He instinctively knew that this was the finale of
some tragedy. He withdrew hastily, so as not to be a witness of an interview that was
not meant for his ears. Reginald Clarke probably had good reason for parting with his young
friend, whom Ernest surmised to be Abel Felton, a talented boy, whom the
master had taken under his wings. In the apartment a momentary silence had ensued. This was interrupted by Clarke: "It will come again, in a month, in a
year, in two years." "No, no! It is all gone!" sobbed the boy. "Nonsense. You are merely nervous. But that is just why we must part. There is no room in one house for two nervous people." "I was not such a nervous wreck before I met you." "Am I to blame for it--for your morbid fancies, your extravagance, the
slow tread of a nervous disease, perhaps?" "Who can tell? But I am all confused. I don't know what I am saying. Everything is so puzzling--life, friendship, you. I fancied you cared
for my career, and now you end our friendship without a thought!" "We must all follow the law of our being." "The laws are within us and in our control." "They are within us and beyond us. It is the physiological structure of
our brains, our nerve-cells, that makes and mars our lives. "Our mental companionship was so beautiful. It was meant to last." "That is the dream of youth. Nothing lasts. Everything flows--panta rei. We are all but sojourners in an inn. Friendship, as love, is an
illusion. Life has nothing to take from a man who has no illusions." "It has nothing to give him." They said good-bye. At the door Ernest met Abel. | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
"Where are you going?" he asked. "For a little pleasure trip." Ernest knew that the boy lied. He remembered that Abel Felton was at work upon some book, a play or a
novel. It occurred to him to inquire how far he had progressed with it. Abel smiled sadly. "I am not writing it." "Not writing it?" "Reginald is." "I am afraid I don't understand." "Never mind. Some day you will." IV
"I am so happy you came," Reginald Clarke said, as he conducted Ernest
into his studio. It was a large, luxuriously furnished room overlooking
the Hudson and Riverside Drive. Dazzled and bewildered, the boy's eyes wandered from object to object,
from picture to statue. Despite seemingly incongruous details, the whole
arrangement possessed style and distinction. A satyr on the mantelpiece whispered obscene secrets into the ears of
Saint Cecilia. The argent limbs of Antinous brushed against the garments
of Mona Lisa. And from a corner a little rococo lady peered coquettishly
at the gray image of an Egyptian sphinx. There was a picture of Napoleon
facing the image of the Crucified. Above all, in the semi-darkness,
artificially produced by heavy draperies, towered two busts. "Shakespeare and Balzac!" Ernest exclaimed with some surprise. "Yes," explained Reginald, "they are my gods." His gods! Surely there was a key to Clarke's character. Our gods are
ourselves raised to the highest power. Clarke and Shakespeare! Even to Ernest's admiring mind it seemed almost blasphemous to name a
contemporary, however esteemed, in one breath with the mighty master of
song, whose great gaunt shadow, thrown against the background of the
years has assumed immense, unproportionate, monstrous dimensions. Yet something might be said for the comparison. Clarke undoubtedly was
universally broad, and undoubtedly concealed, with no less exquisite
taste than the Elizabethan, his own personality under the splendid
raiment of his art. They certainly were affinities. It would not have
been surprising to him to see the clear calm head of Shakespeare rise
from behind his host. Perhaps--who knows?--the very presence of the bust in his room had, to
some extent, subtly and secretly moulded Reginald Clarke's life. A man's
soul, like the chameleon, takes colour from its environment. Even
comparative trifles, the number of the house in which we live, or the
colour of the wallpaper of a room, may determine a destiny. The boy's eyes were again surveying the fantastic surroundings in which
he found himself; while, from a corner, Clarke's eyes were watching his
every movement, as if to follow his thoughts into the innermost
labyrinth of the mind. It seemed to Ernest, under the spell of this
passing fancy, as though each vase, each picture, each curio in the
room, was reflected in Clarke's work. In a long-queued, porcelain
Chinese mandarin he distinctly recognised a quaint quatrain in one of
Clarke's most marvellous poems. And he could have sworn that the grin of
the Hindu monkey-god on the writing-table reappeared in the weird rhythm
of two stanzas whose grotesque cadence had haunted him for years. At last Clarke broke the silence. "You like my studio?" he asked. The simple question brought Ernest back to reality. "Like it? Why, it's stunning. It set up in me the queerest train of
thought." "I, too, have been in a whimsical mood to-night. Fancy, unlike genius,
is an infectious disease." "What is the peculiar form it assumed in your case?" "I have been wondering whether all the things that environ us day by day
are, in a measure, fashioning our thought-life. I sometimes think that
even my little mandarin and this monkey-idol which, by the way, I
brought from India, are exerting a mysterious but none the less real
influence upon my work." "Great God!" Ernest replied, "I have had the identical thought!" "How very strange!" Clarke exclaimed, with seeming surprise. "It is said tritely but truly, that great minds travel the same roads,"
Ernest observed, inwardly pleased. "No," the older man subtly remarked, "but they reach the same
conclusion by a different route." "And you attach serious importance to our fancy?" "Why not?" Clarke was gazing abstractedly at the bust of Balzac. "A man's genius is commensurate with his ability of absorbing from life
the elements essential to his artistic completion. Balzac possessed this
power in a remarkable degree. But, strange to say, it was evil that
attracted him most. He absorbed it as a sponge absorbs water; perhaps
because there was so little of it in his own make-up. He must have
purified the atmosphere around him for miles, by bringing all the evil
that was floating in the air or slumbering in men's souls to the point
of his pen. "And he"--his eyes were resting on Shakespeare's features as a man might
look upon the face of a brother--"he, too, was such a nature. In fact,
he was the most perfect type of the artist. Nothing escaped his mind. From life and from books he drew his material, each time reshaping it
with a master-hand. Creation is a divine prerogative. Re-creation,
infinitely more wonderful than mere calling into existence, is the
prerogative of the poet. Shakespeare took his colours from many
palettes. That is why he is so great, and why his work is incredibly
greater than he. It alone explains his unique achievement. Who was he? What education did he have, what opportunities? None. And yet we find in
his work the wisdom of Bacon, Sir Walter Raleigh's fancies and
discoveries, Marlowe's verbal thunders and the mysterious loveliness of
Mr. W.H." Ernest listened, entranced by the sound of Clarke's mellifluous voice. He was, indeed, a master of the spoken word, and possessed a miraculous
power of giving to the wildest fancies an air of vraisemblance. V
"Yes," said Walkham, the sculptor, "it's a most curious thing." "What is?" asked Ernest, who had been dreaming over the Sphinx that was
looking at him from its corner with the sarcastic smile of five thousand
years. "How our dreams of yesterday stare at us like strangers to-day." "On the contrary," remarked Reginald, "it would be strange if they were
still to know us. In fact, it would be unnatural. The skies above us and
the earth underfoot are in perpetual motion. Each atom of our physical
nature is vibrating with unimaginable rapidity. Change is identical with
life." "It sometimes seems," said the sculptor, "as if thoughts evaporated like
water." "Why not, under favorable conditions?" "But where do they go? Surely they cannot perish utterly?" "Yes, that is the question. Or, rather, it is not a question. Nothing
is ever lost in the spiritual universe." "But what," inquired Ernest, "is the particular reason for your
reflection?" "It is this," the sculptor replied; "I had a striking motive and lost
it." "Do you remember," he continued, speaking to Reginald, "the Narcissus I
was working on the last time when you called at my studio?" "Yes; it was a striking thing and impressed me very much, though I
cannot recall it at the moment." | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
"Well, it was a commission. An eccentric young millionaire had offered
me eight thousand dollars for it. I had an absolutely original
conception. But I cannot execute it. It's as if a breeze had carried it
away." "That is very regrettable." "Well, I should say so," replied the sculptor. Ernest smiled. For everybody knew of Walkham's domestic troubles. Having
twice figured in the divorce court, he was at present defraying the
expenses of three households. The sculptor had meanwhile seated himself at Reginald's writing-table,
unintentionally scanning a typewritten page that was lying before him. Like all artists, something of a madman and something of a child, he at
first glanced over its contents distractedly, then with an interest so
intense that he was no longer aware of the impropriety of his action. "By Jove!" he cried. "What is this?" "It's an epic of the French Revolution," Reginald replied, not without
surprise. "But, man, do you know that I have discovered my motive in it?" "What do you mean?" asked Ernest, looking first at Reginald and then at
Walkham, whose sanity he began to doubt. "Listen!" And the sculptor read, trembling with emotion, a long passage whose
measured cadence delighted Ernest's ear, without, however, enlightening
his mind as to the purport of Walkham's cryptic remark. Reginald said nothing, but the gleam in his eye showed that this time,
at least, his interest was alert. Walkham saw the hopelessness of making clear his meaning without an
explanation. "I forget you haven't a sculptor's mind. I am so constituted that, with
me, all impressions are immediately translated into the sense of form. I
do not hear music; I see it rise with domes and spires, with painted
windows and Arabesques. The scent of the rose is to me tangible. I can
almost feel it with my hand. So your prose suggested to me, by its
rhythmic flow, something which, at first indefinite, crystallised
finally into my lost conception of Narcissus." "It is extraordinary," murmured Reginald. "I had not dreamed of it." "So you do not think it rather fantastic?" remarked Ernest,
circumscribing his true meaning. "No, it is quite possible. Perhaps his Narcissus was engaging the
sub-conscious strata of my mind while I was writing this passage. And
surely it would be strange if the undercurrents of our mind were not
reflected in our style." "Do you mean, then, that a subtle psychologist ought to be able to read
beneath and between our lines, not only what we express, but also what
we leave unexpressed?" "Undoubtedly." "Even if, while we are writing, we are unconscious of our state of mind? That would open a new field to psychology." "Only to those that have the key, that can read the hidden symbols. It
is to me a matter-of-course that every mind-movement below or above the
threshold of consciousness must, of a necessity, leave its imprint
faintly or clearly, as the case may be, upon our activities." "This may explain why books that seem intolerably dull to the majority,
delight the hearts of the few," Ernest interjected. "Yes, to the few that possess the key. I distinctly remember how an
uncle of mine once laid down a discussion on higher mathematics and
blushed fearfully when his innocent wife looked over his shoulder. The
man who had written it was a roué." "Then the seemingly most harmless books may secretly possess the power
of scattering in young minds the seed of corruption," Walkham remarked. "If they happen to understand," Clarke observed thoughtfully. "I can
very well conceive of a lecherous text-book of the calculus, or of a
reporter's story of a picnic in which burnt, under the surface,
undiscoverable, save to the initiate, the tragic passion of Tristram and
Iseult." VI
Several weeks had elapsed since the conversation in Reginald Clarke's
studio. The spring was now well advanced and had sprinkled the meadows
with flowers, and the bookshelves of the reviewers with fiction. The
latter Ernest turned to good account, but from the flowers no poem
blossomed forth. In writing about other men's books, he almost forgot
that the springtide had brought to him no bouquet of song. Only now and
then, like a rippling of water, disquietude troubled his soul. The strange personality of the master of the house had enveloped the
lad's thoughts with an impenetrable maze. The day before Jack had come
on a flying visit from Harvard, but even he was unable to free Ernest's
soul from the obsession of Reginald Clarke. Ernest was lazily stretching himself on a couch, waving the smoke of
his cigarette to Reginald, who was writing at his desk. "Your friend Jack is delightful," Reginald remarked, looking up from his
papers. "And his ebon-coloured hair contrasts prettily with the gold in
yours. I should imagine that you are temperamental antipodes." "So we are; but friendship bridges the chasm between." "How long have you known him?" "We have been chums ever since our sophomore year." "What attracted you in him?" "It is no simple matter to define exactly one's likes and dislikes. Even
a tiny protoplasmic animal appears to be highly complex under the
microscope. How can we hope to analyse, with any degree of certitude,
our souls, especially when, under the influence of feeling, we see as
through a glass darkly." "It is true that personal feeling colours our spectacles and distorts
the perspective. Still, we should not shrink from self-analysis. We must
learn to see clearly into our own hearts if we would give vitality to
our work. Indiscretion is the better part of literature, and it
behooves us to hound down each delicate elusive shadow of emotion, and
convert it into copy." "It is because I am so self-analytical that I realise the complexity of
my nature, and am at a loss to define my emotions. Conflicting forces
sway us hither and thither without neutralising each other. Physicology
isn't physics. There were many things to attract me to Jack. He was
subtler, more sympathetic, more feminine, perhaps, than the rest of my
college-mates." "That I have noticed. In fact, his lashes are those of a girl. You still
care for him very much?" "It isn't a matter of caring. We are two beings that live one life." "A sort of psychic Siamese twins?" "Almost. Why, the matter is very simple. Our hearts root in the same
soil; the same books have nourished us, the same great winds have shaken
our being, and the same sunshine called forth the beautiful blossom of
friendship." "He struck me, if you will pardon my saying so, as a rather commonplace
companion." "There is in him a hidden sweetness, and a depth of feeling which only
intimate contact reveals. He is now taking his post-graduate course at
Harvard, and for well-nigh two months we have not met; yet so many
invisible threads of common experience unite us that we could meet after
years and still be near each other." "You are very young," Reginald replied. "What do you mean?" "Ah--never mind." "So you do not believe that two hearts may ever beat as one?" | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
"No, that is an auditory delusion. Not even two clocks beat in unison. There is always a discrepancy, infinitesimal, perhaps, but a discrepancy
nevertheless." A sharp ring of the bell interrupted the conversation. A moment later a
curly head peeped through the door. "Hello, Ernest! How are you, old man?" the intruder cried, with a laugh
in his voice. Then, noticing Clarke, he shook hands with the great man
unceremoniously, with the nonchalance of the healthy young animal bred
in the atmosphere of an American college. His touch seemed to thrill Clarke, who breathed heavily and then stepped
to the window, as if to conceal the flush of vitality on his cheek. It was a breath of springtide that Jack had brought with him. Youth is a
Prince Charming. To shrivelled veins the pressure of his hand imparts a
spark of animation, and middle age unfolds its petals in his presence,
as a sunflower gazing at late noon once more upon its lord. "I have come to take Ernest away from you," said Jack. "He looks a
trifle paler than usual, and a day's outing will stir the red corpuscles
in his blood." "I have no doubt that you will take very good care of him," Reginald
replied. "Where shall we go?" Ernest asked, absent-mindedly. But he did not hear the answer, for Reginald's scepticisms had more
deeply impressed him than he cared to confess to himself. VII
The two boys had bathed their souls in the sea-breeze, and their eyes in
light. The tide of pleasure-loving humanity jostling against them had carried
their feet to the "Lion Palace." From there, seated at table and
quenching their thirst with high-balls, they watched the feverish
palpitations of the city's life-blood pulsating in the veins of Coney
Island, to which they had drifted from Brighton Beach. Ernest blew thoughtful rings of smoke into the air. "Do you notice the ferocious look in the mien of the average frequenter
of this island resort?" he said to Jack, whose eyes, following the
impulse of his more robust youth, were examining specimens of feminine
flotsam on the waves of the crowd. "It is," he continued, speaking to himself for want of an audience,
"the American who is in for having a 'good time.' And he is going to get
it. Like a huntsman, he follows the scent of happiness; but I warrant
that always it eludes him. Perhaps his mad race is only the epitome of
humanity's vain pursuit of pleasure, the eternal cry that is never
answered." But Jack was not listening. There are times in the life of every man
when a petticoat is more attractive to him than all the philosophy of
the world. Ernest was a little hurt, and it was not without some silent
remonstrance that he acquiesced when Jack invited to their table two
creatures that once were women. "Why?" "But they are interesting." "I cannot find so." They both had seen better times--of course. Then money losses came, with
work in shop or factory, and the voice of the tempter in the commercial
wilderness. One, a frail nervous little creature, who had instinctively chosen a
seat at Ernest's side, kept prattling in his ear, ready to tell the
story of her life to any one who was willing to treat her to a drink. Something in her demeanour interested him. "And then I had a stroke of luck. The manager of a vaudeville was my
friend and decided to give me a trial. He thought I had a voice. They
called me Betsy, the Hyacinth Girl. At first it seemed as if people
liked to hear me. But I suppose that was because I was new. After a
month or two they discharged me." "And why?" "I suppose I was just used up, that's all." "Frightful!" "I never had much of a voice--and the tobacco smoke--and the wine--I
love wine." She gulped down her glass. "And do you like your present occupation?" "Why not? Am I not young? Am I not pretty?" This she said not parrotwise, but with a simple coquettishness that was
all her own. On the way to the steamer a few moments later, Ernest asked,
half-reproachfully: "Jack--and you really enjoyed this conversation?" "Didn't you?" "Do you mean this?" "Why, yes; she was--very agreeable." Ernest frowned. "We're twenty, Ernest. And then, you see, it's like a course in
sociology. Susie--"
"Susie, was that her name?" "Yes." "So she had a name?" "Of course." "She shouldn't. It should be a number." "They may not be pillars of society; still, they're human." "Yes," said Ernest, "that is the most horrible part of it." VIII
The moon was shining brightly. Swift and sure the prow of the night-boat parted the silvery foam. The smell of young flesh. Peals of laughter. A breathless pianola. The
tripping of dancing-feet. Voices husked with drink and voices soft with
love. The shrill accents of vulgarity. Hustling waiters. Shop-girls. Bourgeois couples. Tired families of four and upward. Sleeping children. A boy selling candy. The crying of babies. The two friends were sitting on the upper deck, muffled in their long
rain-coats. In the distance the Empire City rose radiant from the mist. "Say, Ernest, you should spout some poetry as of old. Are your lips
stricken mute, or are you still thinking of Coney Island?" "Oh, no, the swift wind has taken it away. I am clean, I am pure. Life
has passed me. It has kissed me, but it has left no trace." He looked upon the face of his friend. Their hands met. They felt, with
keen enjoyment, the beauty of the night, of their friendship, and of the
city beyond. Then Ernest's lips moved softly, musically, twitching with a strange
ascetic passion that trembled in his voice as he began:
_"Huge steel-ribbed monsters rise into the air
Her Babylonian towers, while on high,
Like gilt-scaled serpents, glide the swift trains by,
Or, underfoot, creep to their secret lair. A thousand lights are jewels in her hair,
The sea her girdle, and her crown the sky;
Her life-blood throbs, the fevered pulses fly. Immense, defiant, breathless she stands there. "And ever listens in the ceaseless din,
Waiting for him, her lover, who shall come,
Whose singing lips shall boldly claim their own,
And render sonant what in her was dumb,
The splendour, and the madness, and the sin,
Her dreams in iron and her thoughts of stone. "_
He paused. The boat glided on. For a long time neither spoke a word. After a while Jack broke the silence: "And are you dreaming of becoming
the lyric mouth of the city, of giving utterance to all its yearnings,
its 'dreams in iron and its thoughts of stone'?" "No," replied Ernest, simply, "not yet. It is strange to what
impressions the brain will respond. In Clarke's house, in the midst of
inspiring things, inspiration failed me. But while I was with that girl
an idea came to me--an idea, big, real." "Will it deal with her?" Ernest smiled: "Oh, no. She personally has nothing to do with it. At
least not directly. It was the commotion of blood and--brain. The
air--the change. I don't know what." "What will it be?" asked Jack, with interest all alert. "A play, a wonderful play. | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
And its heroine will be a princess, a little
princess, with a yellow veil." "What of the plot?" "That I shall not tell you to-day. In fact, I shall not breathe a word
to any one. It will take you all by surprise--and the public by storm." "So it will be playable?" "If I am not very much mistaken, you will see it on Broadway within a
year. And," he added graciously, "I will let you have two box-seats for
the first night." They both chuckled at the thought, and their hearts leaped within them. "I hope you will finish it soon," Jack observed after a while. "You
haven't done much of late." "A similar reflection was on my mind when you came yesterday. That
accounts for the low spirits in which you found me." "Ah, indeed," Jack replied, measuring Ernest with a look of wonder. "But
now your face is aglow. It seems that the blood rushes to your head
swifter at the call of an idea than at the kiss of a girl." "Thank God!" Ernest remarked with a sigh of relief. "Mighty forces
within me are fashioning the limpid thought. Passion may grip us by the
throat momentarily; upon our backs we may feel the lashes of desire and
bathe our souls in flames of many hues; but the joy of activity is the
ultimate passion." IX
It seemed, indeed, as if work was to Ernest what the sting of pleasure
is to the average human animal. The inter-play of his mental forces gave
him the sensuous satisfaction of a woman's embrace. His eyes sparkled. His muscle tightened. The joy of creation was upon him. Often very material reasons, like stone weights tied to the wings of a
bird, stayed the flight of his imagination. Magazines were waiting for
his copy, and he was not in the position to let them wait. They supplied
his bread and butter. Between the bread and butter, however, the play was growing scene by
scene. In the lone hours of the night he spun upon the loom of his fancy
a brilliant weft of swift desire--heavy, perfumed, Oriental--interwoven
with bits of gruesome tenderness. The thread of his own life intertwined
with the thread of the story. All genuine art is autobiography. It is
not, however, necessarily a revelation of the artist's actual self, but
of a myriad of potential selves. Ah, our own potential selves! They are
sometimes beautiful, often horrible, and always fascinating. They loom
to heavens none too high for our reach; they stray to yawning hells
beneath our very feet. The man who encompasses heaven and hell is a perfect man. But there are
many heavens and more hells. The artist snatches fire from both. Surely
the assassin feels no more intensely the lust of murder than the poet
who depicts it in glowing words. The things he writes are as real to him
as the things that he lives. But in his realm the poet is supreme. His
hands may be red with blood or white with leprosy: he still remains
king. Woe to him, however, if he transcends the limits of his kingdom
and translates into action the secret of his dreams. The throng that
before applauded him will stone his quivering body or nail to the cross
his delicate hands and feet. Sometimes days passed before Ernest could concentrate his mind upon his
play. Then the fever seized him again, and he strung pearl on pearl,
line on line, without entrusting a word to paper. Even to discuss his
work before it had received the final brush-strokes would have seemed
indecent to him. Reginald, too, seemed to be in a turmoil of work. Ernest had little
chance to speak to him. And to drop even a hint of his plans between the
courses at breakfast would have been desecration. Sunset followed sunset, night followed night. The stripling April had
made room for the lady May. The play was almost completed in Ernest's
mind, and he thought, with a little shudder, of the physical travail of
the actual writing. He felt that the transcript from brain to paper
would demand all his powers. For, of late, his thoughts seemed strangely
evanescent; they seemed to run away from him whenever he attempted to
seize them. The day was glad with sunshine, and he decided to take a long walk in
the solitude of the Palisades, to steady hand and nerve for the final
task. He told Reginald of his intention, but met with little response. Reginald's face was wan and bore the peculiar pallor of one who had
worked late at night. "You must be frightfully busy?" Ernest asked, with genuine concern. "So I am," Reginald replied. "I always work in a white heat. I am
restless, nervous, feverish, and can find no peace until I have given
utterance to all that clamours after birth." "What is it that is so engaging your mind, the epic of the French
Revolution?" "Oh, no. I should never have undertaken that. I haven't done a stroke of
work on it for several weeks. In fact, ever since Walkham called, I
simply couldn't. It seemed as if a rough hand had in some way destroyed
the web of my thought. Poetry in the writing is like red hot glass
before the master-blower has fashioned it into birds and trees and
strange fantastic shapes. A draught, caused by the opening of a door may
distort it. But at present I am engaged upon more important work. I am
modelling a vessel not of fine-spun glass, but of molten gold." "You make me exceedingly anxious to know what you have in store for us. It seems to me you have reached a point where even you can no longer
surpass yourself." Reginald smiled. "Your praise is too generous, yet it warms like
sunshine. I will confess that my conception is unique. It combines with
the ripeness of my technique the freshness of a second spring." Ernest was bubbling with anticipated delights. His soul responded to
Reginald's touch as a harp to the winds. "When," he cried, "shall we be
privileged to see it?" Reginald's eyes were already straying back to his writing table. "If the
gods are propitious," he remarked, "I shall complete it to-night. To-morrow is my reception, and I have half promised to read it then." "Perhaps I shall be in the position soon to let you see my play." "Let us hope so," Reginald replied absent-mindedly. The egotism of the
artist had once more chained him to his work. X
That night a brilliant crowd had gathered in Reginald Clarke's house. From the studio and the adjoining salon arose a continual murmur of
well-tuned voices. On bare white throats jewels shone as if in each a
soul were imprisoned, and voluptuously rustled the silk that clung to
the fair slim forms of its bearers in an undulating caress. Subtle
perfumes emanated from the hair and the hands of syren women,
commingling with the soft plump scent of their flesh. Fragrant tapers,
burning in precious crystal globules stained with exquisite colours,
sprinkled their shimmering light over the fashionable assemblage and
lent a false radiance to the faces of the men, while in the hair and the
jewels of the women each ray seemed to dance like an imp with its mate. | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
A seat like a throne, covered with furs of tropic beasts of prey, stood
in one corner of the room in the full glare of the light, waiting for
the monarch to come. Above were arranged with artistic _raffinement_
weird oriental draperies, resembling a crimson canopy in the total
effect. Chattering visitors were standing in groups, or had seated
themselves on the divans and curiously-fashioned chairs that were
scattered in seeming disorder throughout the salon. There were critics
and writers and men of the world. Everybody who was anybody and a little
bigger than somebody else was holding court in his own small circle of
enthusiastic admirers. The Bohemian element was subdued, but not
entirely lacking. The magic of Reginald Clarke's name made stately dames
blind to the presence of some individuals whom they would have passed on
the street without recognition. Ernest surveyed this gorgeous assembly with the absent look of a
sleep-walker. Not that his sensuous soul was unsusceptible to the
atmosphere of culture and corruption that permeated the whole, nor to
the dazzling colour effects that tantalised while they delighted the
eye. But to-night they shrivelled into insignificance before the
splendour of his inner vision. A radiant dreamland palace, his play, had
risen from the night of inchoate thought. It was wonderful, it was real,
and needed for its completion only the detail of actual construction. And now the characters were hovering in the recesses of his brain, were
yearning to leave that many-winded labyrinth to become real beings of
paper and ink. He would probably have tarried overlong in this fanciful
mansion, had not the reappearance of an unexpected guest broken his
reverie. "Jack!" he exclaimed in surprise, "I thought you a hundred miles away
from here." "That shows that you no longer care for me," Jack playfully answered. "When our friendship was young, you always had a presentiment of my
presence." "Ah, perhaps I had. But tell me, where do you hail from?" "Clarke called me up on the telephone--long-distance, you know. I
suppose it was meant as a surprise for you. And you certainly looked
surprised--not even pleasantly. I am really head-over-heels at work. But you know how it is. Sometimes a little imp whispers into my ears
daring me to do a thing which I know is foolish. But what of it? My legs
are strong enough not to permit my follies to overtake me." "It was certainly good of you to come. In fact, you make me very glad. I
feel that I need you to-night--I don't know why. The feeling came
suddenly--suddenly as you. I only know I need you. How long can you
stay?" "I must leave you to-morrow morning. I have to hustle somewhat. You know
my examinations are taking place in a day or two and I've got to cram up
a lot of things." "Still," remarked Ernest, "your visit will repay you for the loss of
time. Clarke will read to us to-night his masterpiece." "What is it?" "I don't know. I only know it's the real thing. It's worth all the
wisdom bald-headed professors may administer to you in concentrated
doses at five thousand a year." "Come now," Jack could not help saying, "is your memory giving way? Don't you remember your own days in college--especially the mathematical
examinations? You know that your marks came always pretty near the
absolute zero." "Jack," cried Ernest in honest indignation, "not the last time. The last
time I didn't flunk." "No, because your sonnet on Cartesian geometry roused even the
math-fiend to compassion. And don't you remember Professor Squeeler,
whose heart seemed to leap with delight whenever he could tell you that,
in spite of incessant toil on your part, he had again flunked you in
physics with fifty-nine and a half per cent.?" "And he wouldn't raise the mark to sixty! God forgive him,--I cannot." Here their exchange of reminiscences was interrupted. There was a stir. The little potentates of conversation hastened to their seats, before
their minions had wholly deserted them. The king was moving to his throne! Assuredly Reginald Clarke had the bearing of a king. Leisurely he took
his seat under the canopy. A hush fell on the audience; not a fan stirred as he slowly unfolded his
manuscript. XI
The music of Reginald Clarke's intonation captivated every ear. Voluptuously, in measured cadence, it rose and fell; now full and strong
like the sound of an organ, now soft and clear like the tinkling of
bells. His voice detracted by its very tunefulness from what he said. The powerful spell charmed even Ernest's accustomed ear. The first page
gracefully glided from Reginald's hand to the carpet before the boy
dimly realised that he was intimately familiar with every word that fell
from Reginald's lips. When the second page slipped with seeming
carelessness from the reader's hand, a sudden shudder ran through the
boy's frame. It was as if an icy hand had gripped his heart. There could
be no doubt of it. This was more than mere coincidence. It was
plagiarism. He wanted to cry out. But the room swam before his eyes. Surely he must be dreaming. It was a dream. The faces of the audience,
the lights, Reginald, Jack--all phantasmagoria of a dream. Perhaps he had been ill for a long time. Perhaps Clarke was reading the
play for him. He did not remember having written it. But he probably had
fallen sick after its completion. What strange pranks our memories will
play us! But no! He was not dreaming, and he had not been ill. He could endure the horrible uncertainty no longer. His overstrung
nerves must find relaxation in some way or break with a twang. He turned
to his friend who was listening with rapt attention. "Jack, Jack!" he whispered. "What is it?" "That is my play!" "You mean that you inspired it?" "No, I have written it, or rather, was going to write it." "Wake up, Ernest! You are mad!" "No, in all seriousness. It is mine. I told you--don't you
remember--when we returned from Coney Island--that I was writing a
play." "Ah, but not this play." "Yes, this play. I conceived it, I practically wrote it." "The more's the pity that Clarke had preconceived it." "But it is mine!" "Did you tell him a word about it?" "No, to be sure." "Did you leave the manuscript in your room?" "I had, in fact, not written a line of it. No, I had not begun the
actual writing." "Why should a man of Clarke's reputation plagiarise your plays, written
or unwritten?" "I can see no reason. But--"
"Tut, tut." For already this whispered conversation had elicited a look like a stab
from a lady before them. Ernest held fast to the edge of a chair. He must cling to some reality,
or else drift rudderless in a dim sea of vague apprehensions. Or was Jack right? Was his mind giving way? No! No! No! There must be a monstrous secret
somewhere, but what matter? Did anything matter? He had called on his
mate like a ship lost in the fog. For the first time he had not
responded. He had not understood. The bitterness of tears rose to the
boy's eyes. | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
Above it all, melodiously, ebbed and flowed the rich accents of Reginald
Clarke. Ernest listened to the words of his own play coming from the older man's
mouth. The horrible fascination of the scene held him entranced. He saw
the creations of his mind pass in review before him, as a man might look
upon the face of his double grinning at him from behind a door in the
hideous hours of night. They were all there! The mad king. The subtle-witted courtiers. The
sombre-hearted Prince. The Queen-Mother who had loved a jester better
than her royal mate, and the fruit of their shameful alliance, the
Princess Marigold, a creature woven of sunshine and sin. Swiftly the action progressed. Shadows of impending death darkened the
house of the King. In the horrible agony of the rack the old jester
confessed. Stripped of his cap and bells, crowned with a wreath of
blood, he looked so pathetically funny that the Princess Marigold could
not help laughing between her tears. The Queen stood there all trembling and pale. Without a complaint she
saw her lover die. The executioner's sword smote the old man's head
straight from the trunk. It rolled at the feet of the King, who tossed
it to Marigold. The little Princess kissed it and covered the grinning
horror with her yellow veil. The last words died away. There was no applause. Only silence. All were stricken with the dread
that men feel in the house of God or His awful presence in genius. But the boy lay back in his chair. The cold sweat had gathered on his
brow and his temples throbbed. Nature had mercifully clogged his head
with blood. The rush of it drowned the crying voice of the nerves,
deadening for a while both consciousness and pain. XII
Somehow the night had passed--somehow in bitterness, in anguish. But it
had passed. Ernest's lips were parched and sleeplessness had left its trace in the
black rings under the eyes, when the next morning he confronted Reginald
in the studio. Reginald was sitting at the writing-table in his most characteristic
pose, supporting his head with his hand and looking with clear piercing
eyes searchingly at the boy. "Yes," he observed, "it's a most curious psychical phenomenon." "You cannot imagine how real it all seemed to me." The boy spoke painfully, dazed, as if struck by a blow. "Even now it is as if something has gone from me, some struggling
thought that I cannot--cannot remember." Reginald regarded him as a physical experimenter might look upon the
subject of a particularly baffling mental disease. "You must not think, my boy, that I bear you any malice for your
extraordinary delusion. Before Jack went away he gave me an exact
account of all that has happened. Divers incidents recurred to him from
which it appears that, at various times in the past, you have been on
the verge of a nervous collapse." A nervous collapse! What was the use of this term but a euphemism for
insanity? "Do not despair, dear child," Reginald caressingly remarked. "Your
disorder is not hopeless, not incurable. Such crises come to every man
who writes. It is the tribute we pay to the Lords of Song. The
minnesinger of the past wrote with his heart's blood; but we moderns dip
our pen into the sap of our nerves. We analyse life, love art--and the
dissecting knife that we use on other men's souls finally turns against
ourselves. "But what shall a man do? Shall he sacrifice art to hygiene and
surrender the one attribute that makes him chiefest of created things? Animals, too, think. Some walk on two legs. But introspection
differentiates man from the rest. Shall we yield up the sweet
consciousness of self that we derive from the analysis of our emotion,
for the contentment of the bull that ruminates in the shade of a tree or
the healthful stupidity of a mule?" "Assuredly not." "But what shall a man do?" "Ah, that I cannot tell. Mathematics offers definite problems that admit
of a definite solution. Life states its problems with less exactness and
offers for each a different solution. One and one are two to-day and
to-morrow. Psychical values, on each manipulation, will yield a
different result. Still, your case is quite clear. You have overworked
yourself in the past, mentally and emotionally. You have sown unrest,
and must not be surprised if neurasthenia is the harvest thereof." "Do you think--that I should go to some sanitarium?" the boy falteringly
asked. "God forbid! Go to the seashore, somewhere where you can sleep and play. Take your body along, but leave your brain behind--at least do not
take more of it with you than is necessary. The summer season in
Atlantic City has just begun. There, as everywhere in American society,
you will be much more welcome if you come without brains." Reginald's half-bantering tone reassured Ernest a little. Timidly he
dared approach once more the strange event that had wrought such havoc
with his nervous equilibrium. "How do you account for my strange obsession--one might almost call it a
mania?" "If it could be accounted for it would not be strange." "Can you suggest no possible explanation?" "Perhaps a stray leaf on my desk a few indications of the plot, a
remark--who knows? Perhaps thought-matter is floating in the air. Perhaps--but we had better not talk of it now. It would needlessly
excite you." "You are right," answered Ernest gloomily, "let us not talk of it. But
whatever may be said, it is a marvellous play." "You flatter me. There is nothing in it that you may not be able to do
equally well--some day." "Ah, no," the boy replied, looking up to Reginald with admiration. "You
are the master." XIII
Lazily Ernest stretched his limbs on the beach of Atlantic City. The
sea, that purger of sick souls, had washed away the fever and the fret
of the last few days. The wind was in his hair and the spray was in his
breath, while the rays of the sun kissed his bare arms and legs. He
rolled over in the glittering sand in the sheer joy of living. Now and then a wavelet stole far into the beach, as if to caress him,
but pined away ere it could reach its goal. It was as if the enamoured
sea was stretching out its arms to him. Who knows, perhaps through the
clear water some green-eyed nymph, or a young sea-god with the tang of
the sea in his hair, was peering amorously at the boy's red mouth. The
people of the deep love the red warm blood of human kind. It is always
the young that they lure to their watery haunts, never the shrivelled
limbs that totter shivering to the grave. Such fancies came to Ernest as he lay on the shore in his bathing
attire, happy, thoughtless,--animal. The sun and the sea seemed to him two lovers vying for his favor. The
sudden change of environment had brought complete relaxation and had
quieted his rebellious, assertive soul. He was no longer a solitary unit
but one with wind and water, herb and beach and shell. Almost
voluptuously his hand toyed with the hot sand that glided caressingly
through his fingers and buried his breast and shoulder under its
glittering burden. | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
A summer girl who passed lowered her eyes coquettishly. He watched her
without stirring. Even to open his mouth or to smile would have seemed
too much exertion. Thus he lay for hours. When at length noon drew nigh, it cost him a
great effort of will to shake off his drowsy mood and exchange his airy
costume for the conventional habilaments of the dining-room. He had taken lodgings in a fashionable hotel. An unusual stroke of good
luck, hack-work that paid outrageously well, had made it possible for
him to idle for a time without a thought of the unpleasant necessity of
making money. One single article to which he signed his name only with reluctance had
brought to him more gear than a series of golden sonnets. "Surely," he thought, "the social revolution ought to begin from above. What right has the bricklayer to grumble when he receives for a week's
work almost more than I for a song?" Thus soliloquising, he reached the dining-room. The scene that unfolded
itself before him was typical--the table over-loaded, the women
over-dressed. The luncheon was already in full course when he came. He mumbled an
apology and seated himself on the only remaining chair next to a youth
who reminded him of a well-dressed dummy. With slight weariness his eyes
wandered in all directions for more congenial faces when they were
arrested by a lady on the opposite side of the table. She was clad in a
silk robe with curiously embroidered net-work that revealed a nervous
and delicate throat. The rich effect of the net-work was relieved by the
studied simplicity with which her heavy chestnut-colored hair was
gathered in a single knot. Her face was turned away from him, but there
was something in the carriage of her head that struck him as familiar. When at last she looked him in the face, the glass almost fell from his
hand: it was Ethel Brandenbourg. She seemed to notice his embarrassment
and smiled. When she opened her lips to speak, he knew by the haunting
sweetness of the voice that he was not mistaken. "Tell me," she said wistfully, "you have forgotten me? They all have." He hastened to assure her that he had not forgotten her. He recollected
now that he had first been introduced to her in Walkham's house some
years ago, when a mere college boy, he had been privileged to attend one
of that master's famous receptions. She had looked quite resolute and
very happy then, not at all like the woman who had stared so strangely
at Reginald in the Broadway restaurant. He regarded this encounter as very fortunate. He knew so much of her
personal history that it almost seemed to him as if they had been
intimate for years. She, too, felt on familiar ground with him. Neither
as much as whispered the name of Reginald Clarke. Yet it was he, and the
knowledge of what he was to them, that linked their souls with a common
bond. XIV
It was the third day after their meeting. Hour by hour their intimacy
had increased. Ethel was sitting in a large wicker-chair. She restlessly
fingered her parasol, mechanically describing magic circles in the sand. Ernest lay at her feet. With his knees clasped between his hands, he
gazed into her eyes. "Why are you trying so hard to make love to me?" the woman asked, with
the half-amused smile with which the Eve near thirty receives the homage
of a boy. There is an element of insincerity in that smile, but it is a
weapon of defence against love's artillery. Sometimes, indeed, the pleading in the boy's eyes and the cry of the
blood pierces the woman's smiling superiority. She listens, loves and
loses. Ethel Brandenbourg was listening, but the idea of love had not yet
entered into her mind. Her interest in Ernest was due in part to his
youth and the trembling in his voice when he spoke of love. But what
probably attracted her most powerfully was the fact that he intimately
knew the man who still held her woman's heart in the hollow of his hand. It was half in play, therefore, that she had asked him that question. Why did he make love to her? He did not know. Perhaps it was the
irresistible desire to be petted which young poets share with
domesticated cats. But what should he tell her? Polite platitudes were
out of place between them. Besides he knew the penalty of all tender entanglements. Women treat
love as if it were an extremely tenuous wire that can be drawn out
indefinitely. This is a very expensive process. It costs us the most
precious, the only irretrievable thing in the universe--time. And to him
time was song; for money he did not care. The Lord had hallowed his lips
with rhythmic speech; only in the intervals of his singing might he
listen to the voice of his heart--strangest of all watches, that tells
the time not by minutes and hours, but by the coming and going of love. The woman beside him seemed to read his thoughts. "Child, child," she said, "why will you toy with love? Like Jehovah, he
is a jealous god, and nothing but the whole heart can placate him. Woe
to the woman who takes a poet for a lover. I admit it is fascinating,
but it is playing _va banque_. In fact, it is fatal. Art or love will
come to harm. No man can minister equally to both. A genuine poet is
incapable of loving a woman." "Pshaw! You exaggerate. Of course, there is a measure of truth in what
you say, but it is only one side of the truth, and the truth, you know,
is always Janus-faced. In fact, it often has more than two faces. I can
assure you that I have cared deeply for the women to whom my love-poetry
was written. And you will not deny that it is genuine." "God forbid! Only you have been using the wrong preposition. You should
have said that it was written at them." Ernest stared at her in child-like wonder. "By Jove! you are too devilishly clever!" he exclaimed. After a little silence he said not without hesitation: "And do you apply
your theory to all artists, or only to us makers of rhyme?" "To all," she replied. He looked at her questioningly. "Yes," she said, with a new sadness in her voice, "I, too, have paid the
price." "You mean?" "I loved." "And art?" "That was the sacrifice." "Perhaps you have chosen the better part," Ernest said without
conviction. "No," she replied, "my tribute was brought in vain." This she said calmly, but Ernest knew that her words were of tragic
import. "You love him still?" he observed simply. Ethel made no reply. Sadness clouded her face like a veil or like a grey
mist over the face of the waters. Her eyes went out to the sea,
following the sombre flight of the sea-mews. In that moment he could have taken her in his arms and kissed her with
infinite tenderness. But tenderness between man and woman is like a match in a
powder-magazine. The least provocation, and an amorous explosion will
ensue, tumbling down the card-houses of platonic affection. If he
yielded to the impulse of the moment, the wine of the springtide would
set their blood afire, and from the flames within us there is no escape. "Come, come," she said, "you do not love me." He protested. | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
"Ah!" she cried triumphantly, "how many sonnets would you give for me? If you were a usurer in gold instead of in rhyme, I would ask how many
dollars. But it is unjust to pay in a coin that we value little. To a
man starving in gold mines, a piece of bread weighs more than all the
treasures of the earth. To you, I warrant your poems are the standard of
appreciation. How many would you give for me? One, two, three?" "More." "Because you think love would repay you with compound interest," she
observed merrily. He laughed. And when love turns to laughter the danger is passed for the moment. XV
Thus three weeks passed without apparent change in their relations. Ernest possessed a personal magnetism that, always emanating from him,
was felt most deeply when withdrawn. He was at all times involuntarily
exerting his power, which she ever resisted, always on the alert, always
warding off. When at last pressure of work made his immediate departure for New York
imperative, he had not apparently gained the least ground. But Ethel
knew in her heart that she was fascinated, if not in love. The personal
fascination was supplemented by a motherly feeling toward Ernest that,
sensuous in essence, was in itself not far removed from love. She
struggled bravely and with external success against her emotions, never
losing sight of the fact that twenty and thirty are fifty. Increasingly aware of her own weakness, she constantly attempted to
lead the conversation into impersonal channels, speaking preferably of
his work. "Tell me," she said, negligently fanning herself, "what new inspiration
have you drawn from your stay at the seaside?" "Why," he exclaimed enthusiastically, "volumes and volumes of it. I
shall write the great novel of my life after I am once more quietly
installed at Riverside Drive." "The great American novel?" she rejoined. "Perhaps." "Who will be your hero--Clarke?" There was a slight touch of malice in her words, or rather in the pause
between the penultimate word and the last. Ernest detected its presence,
and knew that her love for Reginald was dead. Stiff and cold it lay in
her heart's chamber--beside how many others?--all emboxed in the coffin
of memory. "No," he replied after a while, a little piqued by her suggestion,
"Clarke is not the hero. What makes you think that he casts a spell on
everything I do?" "Dear child," she replied, "I know him. He cannot fail to impress his
powerful personality upon all with whom he comes in contact, to the
injury of their intellectual independence. Moreover, he is so brilliant
and says everything so much better than anybody else, that by his very
splendor he discourages effort in others. At best his influence will
shape your development according to the tenets of his mind--curious,
subtle and corrupted. You will become mentally distorted, like one of
those hunchback Japanese trees, infinitely wrinkled and infinitely
grotesque, whose laws of growth are not determined by nature, but by the
diseased imagination of the East." "I am no weakling," Ernest asserted, "and your picture of Clarke is
altogether out of perspective. His splendid successes are to me a source
of constant inspiration. We have some things in common, but I realise
that it is along entirely different lines that success will come to me. He has never sought to influence me, in fact, I never received the
smallest suggestion from him." Here the Princess Marigold seemed to peer
at him through the veil of the past, but he waved her aside. "As for my
story," he continued, "you need not go so far out of your way to find
the leading character?" "Who can it be?" Ethel remarked, with a merry twinkle, "You?" "Ethel," he said sulkingly, "be serious. You know that it is you." "I am immensely flattered," she replied. "Really, nothing pleases me
better than to be immortalised in print, since I have little hope
nowadays of perpetuating my name by virtue of pencil or brush. I have
been put into novels before and am consumed with curiosity to hear the
plot of yours." "If you don't mind, I had rather not tell you just yet," Ernest said. "It's going to be called Leontina--that's you. But all depends on the
treatment. You know it doesn't matter much what you say so long as you
say it well. That's what counts. At any rate, any indication of the plot
at this stage would be decidedly inadequate." "I think you are right," she ventured. "By all means choose your own
time to tell me. Let's talk of something else. Have you written
anything since your delightful book of verse last spring? Surely now is
your singing season. By the time we are thirty the springs of pure lyric
passion are usually exhausted." Ethel's inquiry somehow startled him. In truth, he could find no
satisfactory answer. A remark relative to his play--Clarke's play--rose
to the threshold of his lips, but he almost bit his tongue as soon as he
realised that the strange delusion which had possessed him that night
still dominated the undercurrents of his cerebration. No, he had
accomplished but little during the last few months--at least, by way of
creative literature. So he replied that he had made money. "That is
something," he said. "Besides, who can turn out a masterpiece every
week? An artist's brain is not a machine, and in the respite from
creative work I have gathered strength for the future. But," he added,
slightly annoyed, "you are not listening." His exclamation brought her back from the train of thoughts that his
words had suggested. For in his reasoning she had recognised the same
arguments that she had hourly repeated to herself in defence of her
inactivity when she was living under the baneful influence of Reginald
Clarke. Yes, baneful; for the first time she dared to confess it to
herself. In a flash the truth dawned upon her that it was not her love
alone, but something else, something irresistable and very mysterious,
that had dried up the well of creation in her. Could it be that the same
power was now exerting its influence upon the struggling soul of this
talented boy? Rack her brains as she might, she could not definitely
formulate her apprehensions and a troubled look came into her eyes. "Ethel," the boy repeated, impatiently, "why are you not listening? Do
you realise that I must leave you in half an hour?" She looked at him with deep tenderness. Something like a tear lent a
soft radiance to her large child-like eyes. Ernest saw it and was profoundly moved. In that moment he loved her
passionately. "Foolish boy," she said softly; then, lowering her voice to a whisper:
"You may kiss me before you go." His lips gently touched hers, but she took his head between her hands
and pressed her mouth upon his in a long kiss. Ernest drew back a little awkwardly. He had not been kissed like this
before. "Poet though you are," Ethel whispered, "you have not yet learned to
kiss." She was deeply agitated when she noticed that his hand was fumbling for
the watch in his vest-pocket. | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
She suddenly released him, and said, a
little hurt: "No, you must not miss your train. Go by all means." Vainly Ernest remonstrated with her. "Go to him," she said, and again, "go to him." With a heavy heart the boy obeyed. He waved his hat to her once more
from below, and then rapidly disappeared in the crowd. For a moment
strange misgivings cramped her heart, and something within her called
out to him: "Do not go! Do not return to that house." But no sound
issued from her lips. Worldly wisdom had sealed them, had stifled the
inner voice. And soon the boy's golden head was swallowed up in the
distance. XVI
While the train sped to New York, Ethel Brandenbourg was the one object
engaging Ernest's mind. He still felt the pressure of her lips upon his,
and his nostrils dilated at the thought of the fragrance of her hair
brushing against his forehead. But the moment his foot touched the ferry-boat that was to take him to
Manhattan, the past three weeks were, for the time being at least,
completely obliterated from his memory. All his other interests that he
had suppressed in her company because she had no part in them, came
rushing back to him. He anticipated with delight his meeting with
Reginald Clarke. The personal attractiveness of the man had never seemed
so powerful to Ernest as when he had not heard from him for some time. Reginald's letters were always brief. "Professional writers," he was
wont to say, "cannot afford to put fine feeling into their private
correspondence. They must turn it into copy." He longed to sit with the
master in the studio when the last rays of the daylight were tremulously
falling through the stained window, and to discuss far into the
darkening night philosophies young and old. He longed for Reginald's
voice, his little mannerisms, the very perfume of his rooms. There also was a deluge of letters likely to await him in his apartment. For in his hurried departure he had purposely left his friends in the
dark as to his whereabouts. Only to Jack he had dropped a little note
the day after his meeting with Ethel. He earnestly hoped to find Reginald at home, though it was well nigh ten
o'clock in the evening, and he cursed the "rapid transit" for its
inability to annihilate space and time. It is indeed disconcerting to
think how many months, if not years, of our earthly sojourn the dwellers
in cities spend in transportation conveyances that must be set down as a
dead loss in the ledger of life. A nervous impatience against things
material overcame Ernest in the subway. It is ever the mere stupid
obstacle of matter that weights down the wings of the soul and prevents
it from soaring upward to the sun. When at last he had reached the house, he learned from the hall-boy that
Clarke had gone out. Ruffled in temper he entered his rooms and went
over his mail. There were letters from editors with commissions that he
could not afford to reject. Everywhere newspapers and magazines opened
their yawning mouths to swallow up what time he had. He realised at once
that he would have to postpone the writing of his novel for several
weeks, if not longer. Among the letters was one from Jack. It bore the postmark of a little
place in the Adirondacks where he was staying with his parents. Ernest
opened the missive not without hesitation. On reading and rereading it
the fine lines on his forehead, that would some day deepen into
wrinkles, became quite pronounced and a look of displeasure darkened his
face. Something was wrong with Jack, a slight change that defied
analysis. Their souls were out of tune. It might only be a passing
disturbance; perhaps it was his own fault. It pained him, nevertheless. Somehow it seemed of late that Jack was no longer able to follow the
vagaries of his mind. Only one person in the world possessed a similar
mental vision, only one seemed to understand what he said and what he
left unsaid. Reginald Clarke, being a man and poet, read in his soul as
in an open book. Ethel might have understood, had not love, like a
cloud, laid itself between her eyes and the page. It was with exultation that Ernest heard near midnight the click of
Reginald's key in the door. He found him unchanged, completely,
radiantly himself. Reginald possessed the psychic power of undressing
the soul, of seeing it before him in primal nakedness. Although no word
was said of Ethel Brandenbourg except the mere mention of her presence
in Atlantic City, Ernest intuitively knew that Reginald was aware of the
transformation that absence had wrought in him. In the presence of this
man he could be absolutely himself, without shame or fear of
mis-understanding; and by a strange metamorphosis, all his affection
for Ethel and Jack went out for the time being to Reginald Clarke. XVII
The next day Ernest wrote a letter of more or less superficial
tenderness to Ethel. She had wounded his pride by proving victorious in
the end over his passion and hers; besides, he was in the throes of
work. When after the third day no answer came, he was inclined to feel
aggrieved. It was plain now that she had not cared for him in the least,
but had simply played with him for lack of another toy. A flush of shame
rose to his cheeks at the thought. He began to analyse his own emotions,
and stunned, if not stabbed, his passion step by step. Work was calling
to him. It was that which gave life its meaning, not the love of a
season. How far away, how unreal, she now seemed to him. Yes, she was
right, he had not cared deeply; and his novel, too, would be written
only _at_ her. It was the heroine of his story that absorbed his
interest, not the living prototype. Once in a conversation with Reginald he touched upon the subject. Reginald held that modern taste no longer permitted even the
photographer to portray life as it is, but insisted upon an individual
visualisation. "No man," he remarked, "was ever translated bodily into
fiction. In contradiction to life, art is a process of artificial
selection." Bearing in mind this motive, Ernest went to work to mould from the
material in hand a new Ethel, more real than life. Unfortunately he
found little time to devote to his novel. It was only when, after a good
day's work, a pile of copy for a magazine lay on his desk, that he could
think of concentrating his mind upon "Leontina." The result was that
when he went to bed his imagination was busy with the plan of his book,
and the creatures of his own brain laid their fingers on his eyelid so
that he could not sleep. When at last sheer weariness overcame him, his mind was still at work,
not in orderly sequence but along trails monstrous and grotesque. Hobgoblins seemed to steal through the hall, and leering incubi
oppressed his soul with terrible burdens. In the morning he awoke
unrested. The tan vanished from his face and little lines appeared in
the corners of his mouth. It was as if his nervous vitality were sapped
from him in some unaccountable way. He became excited, hysterical. | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
Often
at night when he wrote his pot-boilers for the magazines, fear stood
behind his seat, and only the buzzing of the elevator outside brought
him back to himself. In one of his morbid moods he wrote a sonnet which he showed to Reginald
after the latter's return from a short trip out of town. Reginald read
it, looking at the boy with a curious, lurking expression. _O gentle Sleep, turn not thy face away,
But place thy finger on my brow, and take
All burthens from me and all dreams that ache;
Upon mine eyes a cooling balsam lay,
Seeing I am aweary of the day. But, lo! thy lips are ashen and they quake. What spectral vision sees thou that can shake
Thy sweet composure, and thy heart dismay? Perhaps some murderer's cruel eye agleam
Is fixed upon me, or some monstrous dream
Might bring such fearful guilt upon the head
Of my unvigilant soul as would arouse
The Borgian snake from her envenomed bed,
Or startle Nero in his golden house._
"Good stuff," Reginald remarked, laying down the manuscript; "when did
you write it?" "The night when you were out of town," Ernest rejoined. "I see," Reginald replied. There was something startling in his intonation that at once aroused
Ernest's attention. "What do you see?" he asked quickly. "Nothing," Reginald replied, with immovable calm, "only that your state
of nerves is still far from satisfactory." XVIII
After Ernest's departure Ethel Brandenbourg's heart was swaying hither
and thither in a hurricane of conflicting feelings. Before she had time
to gain an emotional equilibrium, his letter had hurled her back into
chaos. A false ring somewhere in Ernest's words, reechoing with an
ever-increasing volume of sound, stifled the voice of love. His jewelled
sentences glittered, but left her cold. They lacked that spontaneity
which renders even simple and hackeneyed phrases wonderful and unique. Ethel clearly realised that her hold upon the boy's imagination had been
a fleeting midsummer night's charm, and that a word from Reginald's lips
had broken the potency of her spell. She almost saw the shadow of
Reginald's visage hovering over Ernest's letter and leering at her from
between the lines in sinister triumph. Finally reason came and
whispered to her that it was extremely unwise to give her heart into the
keeping of a boy. His love, she knew, would have been exacting,
irritating at times. He would have asked her to sympathise with every
phase of his life, and would have expected active interest on her part
in much that she had done with long ago. Thus, untruth would have stolen
into her life and embittered it. When mates are unequal, Love must paint
its cheeks and, in certain moods at least, hide its face under a mask. Its lips may be honeyed, but it brings fret and sorrow in its train. These things she told herself over and over again while she penned a
cool and calculating answer to Ernest's letter. She rewrote it many
times, and every time it became more difficult to reply. At last she put
her letter aside for a few days, and when it fell again into her hand it
seemed so unnatural and strained that she destroyed it. Thus several weeks had passed, and Ernest no longer exclusively occupied
her mind when, one day early in September, while glancing over a
magazine, she came upon his name in the table of contents. Once more
she saw the boy's wistful face before her, and a trembling something
stirred in her heart. Her hand shook as she cut the pages, and a mist of
tears clouded her vision as she attempted to read his poem. It was a
piece of sombre brilliance. Like black-draped monks half crazed with
mystic devotion, the poet's thoughts flitted across the page. It was the
wail of a soul that feels reason slipping from it and beholds madness
rise over its life like a great pale moon. A strange unrest emanated
from it and took possession of her. And again, with an insight that was
prophetic, she distinctly recognised behind the vague fear that had
haunted the poet the figure of Reginald Clarke. A half-forgotten dream, struggling to consciousness, staggered her by
its vividness. She saw Clarke as she had seen him in days gone by,
grotesquely transformed into a slimy sea-thing, whose hungry mouths shut
sucking upon her and whose thousand tentacles encircled her form. She
closed her eyes in horror at the reminiscence. And in that moment it
became clear to her that she must take into her hands the salvation of
Ernest Fielding from the clutches of the malign power that had
mysteriously enveloped his life. XIX
The summer was brief, and already by the middle of September many had
returned to the pleasures of urban life. Ethel was among the
first-comers; for, after her resolve to enter the life of the young poet
once more, it would have been impossible for her to stay away from the
city much longer. Her plan was all ready. Before attempting to see
Ernest she would go to meet Reginald and implore him to free the boy
from his hideous spell. An element of curiosity unconsciously entered
her determination. When, years ago, she and Clarke had parted, the man
had seemed, for once, greatly disturbed and had promised, in his
agitation, that some day he would communicate to her what would
exonerate him in her eyes. She had answered that all words between them
were purposeless, and that she hoped never to see his face again. The
experience that the years had brought to her, instead of elucidating
the mystery of Reginald's personality, had, on the contrary, made his
behaviour appear more and more unaccountable. She had more than once
caught herself wishing to meet him again and to analyse dispassionately
the puzzling influences he had exerted upon her. And she could at last
view him dispassionately; there was triumph in that. She was dimly aware
that something had passed from her, something by which he had held her,
and without which his magnetism was unable to play upon her. So when Walkham sent her an invitation to one of his artistic "at homes"
she accepted, in the hope of meeting Reginald. It was his frequentation
of Walkham's house that had for several years effectively barred her
foot from crossing the threshold. It was with a very strange feeling she
greeted the many familiar faces at Walkham's now; and when, toward ten
o'clock, Reginald entered, politely bowing in answer to the welcome from
all sides, her heart beat in her like a drum. But she calmed herself,
and, catching his eye, so arranged it that early in the evening they
met in an alcove of the drawing-room. "It was inevitable," Reginald said. "I expected it." "Yes," she replied, "we were bound to meet." Like a great rush of water, memory came back to her. He was still
horribly fascinating as of old--only she was no longer susceptible to
his fascination. He had changed somewhat in those years. The lines about
his mouth had grown harder and a steel-like look had come into his eyes. | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
Only for a moment, as he looked at her, a flash of tenderness seemed to
come back to them. Then he said, with a touch of sadness: "Why should
the first word between us be a lie?" Ethel made no answer. Reginald looked at her half in wonder and said: "And is your love for
the boy so great that it overcame your hate of me?" Ah, he knew! She winced. "He has told you?" "Not a word." There was something superhuman in his power of penetration. Why should
she wear a mask before him, when his eyes, like the eyes of God, pierced
to the core of her being? "No," she replied, "it is not love, but compassion for him." "Compassion?" "Yes, compassion for your victim." "You mean?" "Reginald!" "I am all ear." "I implore you." "Speak." "You have ruined one life." He raised his eyebrows derogatively. "Yes," she continued fiercely, "ruined it! Is not that enough?" "I have never wilfully ruined any one's life." "You have ruined mine." "Wilfully?" "How else shall I explain your conduct?" "I warned you." "Warning, indeed! The warning that the snake gives to the sparrow
helpless under its gaze." "Ah, but who tells you that the snake is to blame? Is it not rather the
occult power that prescribes with blood on brazen scroll the law of our
being?" "This is no solace to the sparrow. But whatever may be said, let us drop
the past. Let us consider the present. I beg of you, leave this boy--let
him develop without your attempting to stifle the life in him or
impressing upon it the stamp of your alien mind." "Ethel," he protested, "you are unjust. If you knew--" Then an idea
seemed to take hold of him. He looked at her curiously. "What if I knew?" she asked. "You shall know," he said, simply. "Are you strong?" "Strong to withstand anything at your hand. There is nothing that you
can give me, nothing that you can take away." "No," he remarked, "nothing. Yes, you have changed. Still, when I look
upon you, the ghosts of the past seem to rise like live things." "We both have changed. We meet now upon equal grounds. You are no
longer the idol I made of you." "Don't you think that to the idol this might be a relief, not a
humiliation? It is a terrible torture to sit in state with lips
eternally shut. Sometimes there comes over the most reticent of us a
desire to break through the eternal loneliness that surrounds the soul. It is this feeling that prompts madmen to tear off their clothes and
exhibit their nakedness in the market-place. It's madness on my part, or
a whim, or I don't know what; but it pleases me that you should know the
truth." "You promised me long ago that I should." "To-day I will redeem my promise, and I will tell you another thing that
you will find hard to believe." "And that is?" "That I loved you." Ethel smiled a little sceptically. "You have loved often." "No," he replied. "Loved, seriously loved, I have, only once." XX
They were sitting in a little Italian restaurant where they had often,
in the old days, lingered late into the night over a glass of Lacrimæ
Christi. But no pale ghost of the past rose from the wine. Only a
wriggling something, with serpent eyes, that sent cold shivers down her
spine and held her speechless and entranced. When their order had been filled and the waiter had posted himself at a
respectful distance, Reginald began--at first leisurely, a man of the
world. But as he proceeded a strange exultation seemed to possess him
and from his eyes leaped the flame of the mystic. "You must pardon me," he commenced, "if I monopolise the conversation,
but the revelations I have to make are of such a nature that I may well
claim your attention. I will start with my earliest childhood. You
remember the picture of me that was taken when I was five?" She remembered, indeed. Each detail of his life was deeply engraven on
her mind. "At that time," he continued, "I was not held to be particularly bright. The reason was that my mind, being pre-eminently and extraordinarily
receptive, needed a stimulus from without. The moment I was sent to
school, however, a curious metamorphosis took place in me. I may say
that I became at once the most brilliant boy in my class. You know that
to this day I have always been the most striking figure in any circle in
which I have ever moved." Ethel nodded assent. Silently watching the speaker, she saw a gleam of
the truth from afar, but still very distant and very dim. Reginald lifted the glass against the light and gulped its contents. Then in a lower voice he recommenced: "Like the chameleon, I have the
power of absorbing the colour of my environment." "Do you mean that you have the power of absorbing the special virtues
of other people?" she interjected. "That is exactly what I mean." "Oh!" she cried, for in a heart-beat many things had become clear to
her. For the first time she realised, still vaguely but with increasing
vividness, the hidden causes of her ruin and, still more plainly, the
horrible danger of Ernest Fielding. He noticed her agitation, and a look of psychological curiosity came
into his eyes. "Ah, but that is not all," he observed, smilingly. "That is nothing. We
all possess that faculty in a degree. The secret of my strength is my
ability to reject every element that is harmful or inessential to the
completion of my self. This did not come to me easily, nor without a
struggle. But now, looking back upon my life, many things become
transparent that were obscure even to me at the time. I can now follow
the fine-spun threads in the intricate web of my fate, and discover in
the wilderness of meshes a design, awful and grandly planned." His voice shook with conviction, as he uttered these words. There was
something strangely gruesome in this man. It was thus that she had
pictured to herself the high-priest of some terrible and mysterious
religion, demanding a human sacrifice to appease the hunger of his god. She was fascinated by the spell of his personality, and listened with a
feeling not far removed from awe. But Reginald suddenly changed his tone
and proceeded in a more conversational manner. "The first friend I ever cared for was a boy marvellously endowed for
the study of mathematics. At the time of our first meeting at school, I
was unable to solve even the simplest algebraical problem. But we had
been together only for half a month, when we exchanged parts. It was I
who was the mathematical genius now, whereas he became hopelessly dull
and stuttered through his recitations only with a struggle that brought
the tears to his eyes. Then I discarded him. Heartless, you say? I have
come to know better. Have you ever tasted a bottle of wine that had been
uncorked for a long time? If you have, you have probably found it
flat--the essence was gone, evaporated. Thus it is when we care for
people. Probably--no, assuredly--there is some principle prisoned in
their souls, or in the windings of their brains, which, when escaped,
leaves them insipid, unprofitable and devoid of interest to us. | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
Sometimes this essence--not necessarily the finest element in a man's or
a woman's nature, but soul-stuff that we lack--disappears. In fact, it
invariably disappears. It may be that it has been transformed in the
processes of their growth; it may also be that it has utterly vanished
by some inadvertence, or that we ourselves have absorbed it." "Then we throw them away?" Ethel asked, pale, but dry-eyed. A shudder
passed through her body and she clinched her glass nervously. At that
moment Reginald resembled a veritable Prince of Darkness, sinister and
beautiful, painted by the hand of a modern master. Then, for a space, he
again became the man of the world. Smiling and self-possessed, he filled
the glasses, took a long sip of the wine and resumed his narrative. "That boy was followed by others. I absorbed many useless things and
some that were evil. I realised that I must direct my absorptive
propensities. This I did. I selected, selected well. And all the time
the terrible power of which I was only half conscious grew within me." "It is indeed a terrible power," she cried; "all the more terrible for
its subtlety. Had I not myself been its victim, I should not now find it
possible to believe in it." "The invisible hand that smites in the dark is certainly more fearful
than a visible foe. It is also more merciful. Think how much you would
have suffered had you been conscious of your loss." "Still it seems even now to me that it cannot have been an utter,
irreparable loss. There is no action without reaction. Even I--even
we--must have received from you some compensation for what you have
taken away." "In the ordinary processes of life the law of action and reaction is
indeed potent. But no law is without exception. Think of radium, for
instance, with its constant and seemingly inexhaustible outflow of
energy. It is a difficult thing to imagine, but our scientific men have
accepted it as a fact. Why should we find it more difficult to conceive
of a tremendous and infinite absorptive element? I feel sure that it
must somewhere exist. But every phenomenon in the physical world finds
its counterpart in the psychical universe. There are radium-souls that
radiate without loss of energy, but also without increase. And there are
souls, the reverse of radium, with unlimited absorptive capacities." "Vampire-souls," she observed, with a shudder, and her face blanched. "No," he said, "don't say that." And then he suddenly seemed to grow in
stature. His face was ablaze, like the face of a god. "In every age," he replied, with solemnity, "there are giants who attain
to a greatness which by natural growth no men could ever have reached. But in their youth a vision came to them, which they set out to seek. They take the stones of fancy to build them a palace in the kingdom of
truth, projecting into reality dreams, monstrous and impossible. Often
they fail and, tumbling from their airy heights, end a quixotic career. Some succeed. They are the chosen. Carpenter's sons they are, who have
laid down the Law of a World for milleniums to come; or simple
Corsicans, before whose eagle eye have quaked the kingdoms of the earth. But to accomplish their mission they need a will of iron and the wit of
a hundred men. And from the iron they take the strength, and from a
hundred men's brains they absorb their wisdom. Divine missionaries, they
appear in all departments of life. In their hand is gathered to-day the
gold of the world. Mighty potentates of peace and war, they unlock new
seas and from distant continents lift the bars. Single-handed, they
accomplish what nations dared not hope; with Titan strides they scale
the stars and succeed where millions fail. In art they live, the makers
of new periods, the dreamers of new styles. They make themselves the
vocal sun-glasses of God. Homer and Shakespeare, Hugo and Balzac--they
concentrate the dispersed rays of a thousand lesser luminaries in one
singing flame that, like a giant torch, lights up humanity's path." She gazed at him, open-mouthed. The light had gone from his visage. He
paused, exhausted, but even then he looked the incarnation of a force no
less terrible, no less grand. She grasped the immensity of his
conception, but her woman's soul rebelled at the horrible injustice to
those whose light is extinguished, as hers had been, to feed an alien
flame. And then, for a moment, she saw the pale face of Ernest staring
at her out of the wine. "Cruel," she sobbed, "how cruel!" "What matter?" he asked. "Their strength is taken from them, but the
spirit of humanity, as embodied in us, triumphantly marches on." XXI
Reginald's revelations were followed by a long silence, interrupted only
by the officiousness of the waiter. The spell once broken, they
exchanged a number of more or less irrelevant observations. Ethel's mind
returned, again and again, to the word he had not spoken. He had said
nothing of the immediate bearing of his monstrous power upon her own
life and that of Ernest Fielding. At last, somewhat timidly, she approached the subject. "You said you loved me," she remarked. "I did." "But why, then--"
"I could not help it." "Did you ever make the slightest attempt?" "In the horrible night hours I struggled against it. I even implored you
to leave me." "Ah, but I loved you!" "You would not be warned, you would not listen. You stayed with me, and
slowly, surely, the creative urge went out of your life." "But what on earth could you find in my poor art to attract you? What
were my pictures to you?" "I needed them, I needed you. It was a certain something, a rich colour
effect, perhaps. And then, under your very eyes, the colour that
vanished from your canvases reappeared in my prose. My style became more
luxurious than it had been, while you tortured your soul in the vain
attempt of calling back to your brush what was irretrievably lost." "Why did you not tell me?" "You would have laughed in my face, and I could not have endured your
laugh. Besides, I always hoped, until it was too late, that I might yet
check the mysterious power within me. Soon, however, I became aware that
it was beyond my control. The unknown god, whose instrument I am, had
wisely made it stronger than me." "But why," retorted Ethel, "was it necessary to discard me, like a
cast-off garment, like a wanton who has lost the power to please?" Her frame shook with the remembered emotion of that moment, when years
ago he had politely told her that she was nothing to him. "The law of being," Reginald replied, almost sadly, "the law of my
being. I should have pitied you, but the eternal reproach of your
suffering only provoked my anger. I cared less for you every day, and
when I had absorbed all of you that my growth required, you were to me
as one dead, as a stranger you were. There was between us no further
community of interest; henceforth, I knew, our lives must move in
totally different spheres. You remember that day when we said good-bye?" | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
"You mean that day when I lay before you on my knees," she corrected
him. "That day I buried my last dream of personal happiness. I would have
gladly raised you from the floor, but love was utterly gone. If I am
tenderer to-day than I am wont to be, it is because you mean so much to
me as the symbol of my renunciation. When I realised that I could not
even save the thing I loved from myself, I became hardened and cruel to
others. Not that I know no kindly feeling, but no qualms of conscience
lay their prostrate forms across my path. There is nothing in life for
me but my mission." His face was bathed in ecstasy. The pupils were luminous, large and
threatening. He had the look of a madman or a prophet. After a while Ethel remarked: "But you have grown into one of the
master-figures of the age. Why not be content with that? Is there no
limit to your ambition?" Reginald smiled: "Ambition! Shakespeare stopped when he had reached his
full growth, when he had exhausted the capacity of his contemporaries. I
am not yet ready to lay down my pen and rest." "And will you always continue in this criminal course, a murderer of
other lives?" He looked her calmly in the face. "I do not know." "Are you the slave of your unknown god?" "We are all slaves, wire-pulled marionettes: You, Ernest, I. There is
no freedom on the face of the earth nor above. The tiger that tears a
lamb is not free, I am not free, you are not free. All that happens must
happen; no word that is said is said in vain, in vain is raised no
hand." "Then," Ethel retorted, eagerly, "if I attempted to wrest your victim
from you, I should also be the tool of your god?" "Assuredly. But I am his chosen." "Can you--can you not set him free?" "I need him--a little longer. Then he is yours." "But can you not, if I beg you again on my knees, at least loosen his
chains before he is utterly ruined?" "It is beyond my power. If I could not rescue you, whom I loved, what in
heaven or on earth can save him from his fate? Besides, he will not be
utterly ruined. It is only a part of him that I absorb. In his soul are
chords that I have not touched. They may vibrate one day, when he has
gathered new strength. You, too, would have spared yourself much pain
had you striven to attain success in different fields--not where I had
garnered the harvest of a lifetime. It is only a portion of his talent
that I take from him. The rest I cannot harm. Why should he bury that
remainder?" His eyes strayed through the window to the firmament, as if to say that
words could no more bend his indomitable will than alter the changeless
course of the stars. Ethel had half-forgotten the wrong she herself had suffered at his
hands. He could not be measured by ordinary standards, this dazzling
madman, whose diseased will-power had assumed such uncanny proportions. But here a young life was at stake. In her mind's eye she saw Reginald
crush between his relentless hands the delicate soul of Ernest Fielding,
as a magnificent carnivorous flower might close its glorious petals upon
a fly. Love, all conquering love, welled up in her. She would fight for Ernest
as a tiger cat fights for its young. She would place herself in the way
of the awful force that had shattered her own aspirations, and save, at
any cost, the brilliant boy who did not love her. XXII
The last rays of the late afternoon sun fell slanting through Ernest's
window. He was lying on his couch, in a leaden, death-like slumber that,
for the moment at least, was not even perturbed by the presence of
Reginald Clarke. The latter was standing at the boy's bedside, calm, unmoved as ever. The
excitement of his conversation with Ethel had left no trace on the
chiselled contour of his forehead. Smilingly fastening an orchid of an
indefinable purple tint in his evening coat, radiant, buoyant with life,
he looked down upon the sleeper. Then he passed his hand over Ernest's
forehead, as if to wipe off beads of sweat. At the touch of his hand the
boy stirred uneasily. When it was not withdrawn his countenance twitched
in pain. He moaned as men moan under the influence of some anæsthetic,
without possessing the power to break through the narrow partition that
separates them from death on the one side and from consciousness on the
other. At last a sigh struggled to his seemingly paralysed lips, then
another. Finally the babbling became articulate. "For God's sake," he cried, in his sleep, "take that hand away!" And all at once the benignant smile on Reginald's features was changed
to a look of savage fierceness. He no longer resembled the man of
culture, but a disappointed, snarling beast of prey. He took his hand
from Ernest's forehead and retired cautiously through the half-open
door. Hardly had he disappeared when Ernest awoke. For a moment he looked
around, like a hunted animal, then sighed with relief and buried his
head in his hand. At that moment a knock at the door was heard, and
Reginald re-entered, calm as before. "I declare," he exclaimed, "you have certainly been sleeping the sleep
of the just." "It isn't laziness," Ernest replied, looking up rather pleased at the
interruption. "But I've a splitting headache." "Perhaps those naps are not good for your health." "Probably. But of late I have frequently found it necessary to exact
from the day-hours the sleep which the night refuses me. I suppose it is
all due to indigestion, as you have suggested. The stomach is the source
of all evil." "It is also the source of all good. The Greeks made it the seat of the
soul. I have always claimed that the most important item in a great
poet's biography is an exact reproduction of his menu." "True, a man who eats a heavy beefsteak for breakfast in the morning is
incapable of writing a sonnet in the afternoon." "Yes," Reginald added, "we are what we eat and what our forefathers have
eaten before us. I ascribe the staleness of American poetry to the
griddle-cakes of our Puritan ancestors. I am sorry we cannot go deeper
into the subject at present. But I have an invitation to dinner where I
shall study, experimentally, the influence of French sauces on my
versification." "Good-bye." "Au revoir." And, with a wave of the hand, Reginald left the room. When the door had closed behind him, Ernest's thoughts took a more
serious turn. The tone of light bantering in which the preceding
conversation had taken place had been assumed on his part. For the last
few weeks evil dreams had tortured his sleep and cast their shadow upon
his waking hours. They had ever increased in reality, in intensity and
in hideousness. Even now he could see the long, tapering fingers that
every night were groping in the windings of his brain. It was a
well-formed, manicured hand that seemed to reach under his skull,
carefully feeling its way through the myriad convolutions where thought
resides. And, oh, the agony of it all! A human mind is not a thing of stone, but
alive, horribly alive to pain. | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
What was it those fingers sought, what
mysterious treasures, what jewels hidden in the under-layer of his
consciousness? His brain was like a human gold-mine, quaking under the
blow of the pick and the tread of the miner. The miner! Ah, the miner! Ceaselessly, thoroughly, relentlessly, he opened vein after vein and
wrested untold riches from the quivering ground; but each vein was a
live vein and each nugget of gold a thought! No wonder the boy was a nervous wreck. Whenever a tremulous nascent idea
was formulating itself, the dream-hand clutched it and took it away,
brutally severing the fine threads that bind thought to thought. And
when the morning came, how his head ached! It was not an acute pain, but
dull, heavy, incessant. These sensations, Ernest frequently told himself, were morbid fancies. But then, the monomaniac who imagines that his arms have been mangled or
cut from his body, might as well be without arms. Mind can annihilate
obstacles. It can also create them. Psychology was no unfamiliar ground
to Ernest, and it was not difficult for him to seek in some casual
suggestion an explanation for his delusion, the fixed notion that
haunted him day and night. But he also realized that to explain a
phenomenon is not to explain it away. The man who analyses his emotions
cannot wholly escape them, and the shadow of fear--primal, inexplicable
fear--may darken at moments of weakness the life of the subtlest
psychologist and the clearest thinker. He had never spoken to Reginald of his terrible nightmares. Coming on
the heel of the fancy that he, Ernest, had written "The Princess With
the Yellow Veil," a fancy that, by the way, had again possessed him of
late, this new delusion would certainly arouse suspicion as to his
sanity in Reginald's mind. He would probably send him to a sanitarium;
he certainly would not keep him in the house. Beneficence itself in all
other things, his host was not to be trifled with in any matter that
interfered with his work. He would act swiftly and without mercy. For the first time in many days Ernest thought of Abel Felton. Poor boy! What had become of him after he had been turned from the house? He would
not wait for any one to tell him to pack his bundle. But then, that was
impossible; Reginald was fond of him. Suddenly Ernest's meditations were interrupted by a noise at the outer
door. A key was turned in the lock. It must be he--but why so soon? What
could have brought him back at this hour? He opened the door and went
out into the hall to see what had happened. The figure that he beheld
was certainly not the person expected, but a woman, from whose shoulders
a theatre-cloak fell in graceful folds,--probably a visitor for
Reginald. Ernest was about to withdraw discreetly, when the electric
light that was burning in the hallway fell upon her face and illumined
it. Then indeed surprise overcame him. "Ethel," he cried, "is it you?" XXIII
Ernest conducted Ethel Brandenbourg to his room and helped her to remove
her cloak. While he was placing the garment upon the back of a chair, she slipped a
little key into her hand-bag. He looked at her with a question in his
eyes. "Yes," she replied, "I kept the key; but I had not dreamed that I would
ever again cross this threshold." Meanwhile it had grown quite dark. The reflection of the street lanterns
without dimly lit the room, and through the twilight fantastic shadows
seemed to dance. The perfume of her hair pervaded the room and filled the boy's heart
with romance. Tenderness long suppressed called with a thousand voices. The hour, the strangeness and unexpectedness of her visit, perhaps even
a boy's pardonable vanity, roused passion from its slumbers and once
again wrought in Ernest's soul the miracle of love. His arm encircled
her neck and his lips stammered blind, sweet, crazy and caressing
things. "Turn on the light," she pleaded. "You were not always so cruel." "No matter, I have not come to speak of love." "Why, then, have you come?" Ernest felt a little awkward, disappointed, as he uttered these words. What could have induced her to come to his rooms? He loosened his hold
on her and did as she asked. How pale she looked in the light, how beautiful! Surely, she had
sorrowed for him; but why had she not answered his letter? Yes, why? "Your letter?" She smiled a little sadly. "Surely you did not expect me
to answer that?" "Why not?" He had again approached her and his lips were close to hers. "Why not? I have yearned for you. I love you." His breath intoxicated her; it was like a subtle perfume. Still she did
not yield. "You love me now--you did not love me then. The music of your words was
cold--machine-made, strained and superficial. I shall not answer, I told
myself: in his heart he has forgotten you. I did not then realise that a
dangerous force had possessed your life and crushed in your mind every
image but its own." "I don't understand." "Do you think I would have come here if it were a light matter? No, I
tell you, it is a matter of life and death to you, at least as an
artist." "What do you mean by that?" "Have you done a stroke of work since I last saw you?" "Yes, let me see, surely, magazine articles and a poem." "That is not what I want to know. Have you accomplished anything big? Have you grown since this summer? How about your novel?" "I--I have almost finished it in my mind, but I have found no chance to
begin with the actual writing. I was sick of late, very sick." No doubt of it! His face was pinched and pale, and the lines about the
mouth were curiously contorted, like those of a man suffering from a
painful internal disease. "Tell me," she ventured, "do you ever miss anything?" "Do you mean--are there thieves?" "Thieves! Against thieves one can protect oneself." He stared at her wildly, half-frightened, in anticipation of some
dreadful revelation. His dream! His dream! That hand! Could it be more
than a dream? God! His lips quivered. Ethel observed his agitation and continued more quietly, but with the
same insistence: "Have you ever had ideas, plans that you began without
having strength to complete them? Have you had glimpses of vocal visions
that seemed to vanish no sooner than seen? Did it ever seem to you as if
some mysterious and superior will brutally interfered with the workings
of your brain?" Did it seem so to him! He himself could not have stated more plainly
the experience of the last few months. Each word fell from her lips like
the blow of a hammer. Shivering, he put his arm around her, seeking
solace, not love. This time she did not repulse him and, trustingly, as
a child confides to his mother, he depicted to her the suffering that
harrowed his life and made it a hell. As she listened, indignation clouded her forehead, while rising tears of
anger and of love weighed down her lashes. She could bear the pitiful
sight no longer. "Child," she cried, "do you know who your tormentor is?" And like a flash the truth passed from her to him. | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
A sudden intimation
told him what her words had still concealed. "Don't! For Christ's sake, do not pronounce his name!" he sobbed. "Do
not breathe it. I could not endure it. I should go mad." XXIV
Very quietly, with difficulty restraining her own emotion so as not to
excite him further, Ethel had related to Ernest the story of her
remarkable interview with Reginald Clarke. In the long silence that
ensued, the wings of his soul brushed against hers for the first time,
and Love by a thousand tender chains of common suffering welded their
beings into one. Caressingly the ivory of her fingers passed through the gold of his hair
and over his brow, as if to banish the demon-eyes that stared at him
across the hideous spaces of the past. In a rush a thousand incidents
came back to him, mute witnesses of a damning truth. His play, the
dreams that tormented him, his own inability to concentrate his mind
upon his novel which hitherto he had ascribed to nervous disease--all,
piling fact on fact, became one monstrous monument of Reginald Clarke's
crime. At last Ernest understood the parting words of Abel Felton and
the look in Ethel's eye on the night when he had first linked his fate
with the other man's. Walkham's experience, too, and Reginald's remarks
on the busts of Shakespeare and Balzac unmistakably pointed toward the
new and horrible spectre that Ethel's revelation had raised in place of
his host. And then, again, the other Reginald appeared, crowned with the lyric
wreath. From his lips golden cadences fell, sweeter than the smell of
many flowers or the sound of a silver bell. He was once more the divine
master, whose godlike features bore no trace of malice and who had
raised him to a place very near his heart. "No," he cried, "it is impossible. It's all a dream, a horrible
nightmare." "But he has himself confessed it," she interjected. "Perhaps he has spoken in symbols. We all absorb to some extent other
men's ideas, without robbing them and wrecking their thought-life. Reginald may be unscrupulous in the use of his power of impressing upon
others the stamp of his master-mind. So was Shakespeare. No, no, no! You are mistaken; we were both deluded for the moment by his picturesque
account of a common, not even a discreditable, fact. He may himself have
played with the idea, but surely he cannot have been serious." "And your own experience, and Abel Felton's and mine--can they, too, be
dismissed with a shrug of the shoulder?" "But, come to think of it, the whole theory seems absurd. It is
unscientific. It is not even a case of mesmerism. If he had said that he
hypnotised his victims, the matter would assume a totally different
aspect. I admit that something is wrong somewhere, and that the home of
Reginald Clarke is no healthful abode for me. But you must also remember
that probably we are both unstrung to the point of hysteria." But to Ethel his words carried no conviction. "You are still under his spell," she cried, anxiously. A little shaken in his confidence, Ernest resumed: "Reginald is utterly
incapable of such an action, even granting that he possessed the
terrible power of which you speak. A man of his splendid resources, a
literary Midas at whose very touch every word turns into gold, is under
no necessity to prey on the thoughts of others. Circumstances, I admit,
are suspicious. But in the light of common day this fanciful theory
shrivels into nothing. Any court of law would reject our evidence as
madness. It is too utterly fantastic, utterly alien to any human
experience." "Is it though?" Ethel replied with peculiar intonation. "Why, what do you mean?" "Surely," she answered, "you must know that in the legends of every
nation we read of men and women who were called vampires. They are
beings, not always wholly evil, whom every night some mysterious impulse
leads to steal into unguarded bedchambers, to suck the blood of the
sleepers and then, having waxed strong on the life of their victims,
cautiously to retreat. Thence comes it that their lips are very red. It
is even said that they can find no rest in the grave, but return to
their former haunts long after they are believed to be dead. Those whom
they visit, however, pine away for no apparent reason. The physicians
shake their wise heads and speak of consumption. But sometimes, ancient
chronicles assure us, the people's suspicions were aroused, and under
the leadership of a good priest they went in solemn procession to the
graves of the persons suspected. And on opening the tombs it was found
that their coffins had rotted away and the flowers in their hair were
black. But their bodies were white and whole; through no empty sockets
crept the vermin, and their sucking lips were still moist with a little
blood." Ernest was carried away in spite of himself by her account, which
vividly resembled his own experience. Still he would not give in. "All this is impressive. I admit it is very impressive. But you yourself
speak of such stories as legends. They are unfounded upon any tangible
fact, and you cannot expect a man schooled in modern sciences to admit,
as having any possible bearing upon his life, the crude belief of the
Middle Ages!" "Why not?" she responded. "Our scientists have proved true the wildest
theories of mediæval scholars. The transmutation of metals seems to-day
no longer an idle speculation, and radium has transformed into potential
reality the dream of perpetual motion. The fundamental notions of
mathematics are being undermined. One school of philosophers claims that
the number of angles in a triangle is equal to more than two right
angles; another propounds that it is less. Even great scientists who
have studied the soul of nature are turning to spiritism. The world is
overcoming the shallow scepticism of the nineteenth century. Life has
become once more wonderful and very mysterious. But it also seems that,
with the miracles of the old days, their terrors, their nightmares and
their monsters have come back in a modern guise." Ernest became even more thoughtful. "Yes," he observed, "there is
something in what you say." Then, pacing the room nervously, he
exclaimed: "And still I find it impossible to believe your explanation. Reginald a vampire! It seems so ludicrous. If you had told me that such
creatures exist somewhere, far away, I might have discussed the matter;
but in this great city, in the shadow of the Flatiron Building--no!" She replied with warmth: "Yet they exist--always have existed. Not only
in the Middle Ages, but at all times and in all regions. There is no
nation but has some record of them, in one form or another. And don't
you think if we find a thought, no matter how absurd it may seem to us,
that has ever occupied the minds of men--if we find, I say, such a
perennially recurrent thought, are we not justified in assuming that it
must have some basis in the actual experience of mankind?" | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
Ernest's brow became very clouded, and infinite numbers of hidden
premature wrinkles began to show. How wan he looked and how frail! He
was as one lost in a labyrinth in which he saw no light, convinced
against his will, or rather, against his scientific conviction, that she
was not wholly mistaken. "Still," he observed triumphantly, "your vampires suck blood; but
Reginald, if vampire he be, preys upon the soul. How can a man suck
from another man's brain a thing as intangible, as quintessential as
thought?" "Ah," she replied, "you forget, thought is more real than blood!" XXV
Only three hours had passed since Ethel had startled Ernest from his
sombre reveries, but within this brief space their love had matured as
if each hour had been a year. The pallor had vanished from his cheeks
and the restiveness from his eyes. The intoxication of her presence had
rekindled the light of his countenance and given him strength to combat
the mighty forces embodied in Reginald Clarke. The child in him had made
room for the man. He would not hear of surrendering without a struggle,
and Ethel felt sure she might leave his fate in his own hand. Love had
lent him a coat of mail. He was warned, and would not succumb. Still she
made one more attempt to persuade him to leave the house at once with
her. "I must go now," she said. "Will you not come with me, after all? I am
so afraid to think of you still here." "No, dear," he replied. "I shall not desert my post. I must solve the
riddle of this man's life; and if, indeed, he is the thing he seems to
be, I shall attempt to wrest from him what he has stolen from me. I
speak of my unwritten novel." "Do not attempt to oppose him openly. You cannot resist him." "Be assured that I shall be on my guard. I have in the last few hours
lived through so much that makes life worth living, that I would not
wantonly expose myself to any danger. Still, I cannot go without
certainty--cannot, if there is some truth in our fears, leave the best
of me behind." "What are you planning to do?" "My play--I am sure now that it is mine--I cannot take from him; that is
irretrievably lost. He has read it to his circle and prepared for its
publication. And, no matter how firmly convinced you or I may be of his
strange power, no one would believe our testimony. They would pronounce
us mad. Perhaps we _are_ mad!" "No; we are not mad; but it is mad for you to stay here," she asserted. "I shall not stay here one minute longer than is absolutely essential. Within a week I shall have conclusive proof of his guilt or innocence." "How will you go about it?" "His writing table--"
"Ah!" "Yes, perhaps I can discover some note, some indication, some proof--"
"It's a dangerous game." "I have everything to gain." "I wish I could stay here with you," she said. "Have you no friend, no
one whom you could trust in this delicate matter?" "Why, yes--Jack." A shadow passed over her face. "Do you know," she said, "I have a feeling that you care more for him
than for me?" "Nonsense," he said, "he is my friend, you, you--immeasurably more." "Are you still as intimate with him as when I first met you?" "Not quite; of late a troubling something, like a thin veil, seems to
have passed between us. But he will come when I call him. He will not
fail me in my hour of need." "When can he be here?" "In two or three days." "Meanwhile be very careful. Above all, lock your door at night." "I will not only lock, but barricade it. I shall try with all my power
to elucidate this mystery without, however, exposing myself to needless
risks." "I will go, then. Kiss me good-bye." "May I not take you to the car?" "You had better not." At the door she turned back once more. "Write me every day, or call me
up on the telephone." He straightened himself, as if to convince her of his strength. Yet when
at last the door had closed behind her, his courage forsook him for a
moment. And, if he had not been ashamed to appear a weakling before the
woman he loved, who knows if any power on earth could have kept him in
that house where from every corner a secret seemed to lurk! There was a misgiving, too, in the woman's heart as she left the boy
behind,--a prey to the occult power that, seeking expression in multiple
activities, has made and unmade emperors, prophets and poets. As she stepped into a street car she saw from afar, as in a vision, the
face of Reginald Clarke. It seemed very white and hungry. There was no
human kindness in it--only a threat and a sneer. XXVI
For over an hour Ernest paced up and down his room, wildly excited by
Ethel's revelations. It required an immense amount of self-control for
him to pen the following lines to Jack: "I need you. Come." After he had entrusted the letter to the hall-boy, a reaction set in and
he was able to consider the matter, if not with equanimity, at least
with a degree of calmness. The strangest thing to him was that he could
not bring himself to hate Reginald, of whose evil influence upon his
life he was now firmly convinced. Here was another shattered idol; but
one--like the fragment of a great god-face in the desert--intensely
fascinating, even in its ruin. Then yielding to a natural impulse,
Ernest looked over his photographs and at once laid hold upon the
austere image of his master and friend. No--it was preposterous; there
was no evil in this man. There was no trace of malice in this face, the
face of a prophet or an inspired madman, a poet. And yet, as he
scrutinised the picture closely a curious transformation seemed to take
place in the features; a sly little line appeared insinuatingly about
Reginald's well-formed mouth, and the serene calm of his Jupiter-head
seemed to turn into the sneak smile of a thief. Nevertheless, Ernest was
not afraid. His anxieties had at last assumed definite shape; it was
possible now to be on his guard. It is only invisible, incomprehensible
fear, crouching upon us from the night, that drives sensitive natures to
the verge of madness and transforms stern warriors into cowards. Ernest realised the necessity of postponing the proposed investigation
of Reginald's papers until the morning, as it was now near eleven, and
he expected to hear at any moment the sound of his feet at the door. Before retiring he took a number of precautions. Carefully he locked the
door to his bedroom and placed a chair in front of it. To make doubly
sure, he fastened the handle to an exquisite Chinese vase, a gift of
Reginald's, that at the least attempt to force an entrance from without
would come down with a crash. Then, although sleep seemed out of the question, he went to bed. He had
hardly touched the pillow when a leaden weight seemed to fall upon his
eyes. The day's commotion had been too much for his delicate frame. By
force of habit he pulled the cover over his ear and fell asleep. | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
All night he slept heavily, and the morning was far advanced when a
knock at the door that, at first, seemed to come across an immeasurable
distance, brought him back to himself. It was Reginald's manservant
announcing that breakfast was waiting. Ernest got up and rubbed his eyes. The barricade at the door at once
brought back to his mind with startling clearness the events of the
previous evening. Everything was as he had left it. Evidently no one had attempted to
enter the room while he slept. He could not help smiling at the
arrangement which reminded him of his childhood, when he had sought by
similar means security from burglars and bogeys. And in the broad
daylight Ethel's tales of vampires seemed once more impossible and
absurd. Still, he had abundant evidence of Reginald's strange influence,
and was determined to know the truth before nightfall. Her words, that
thought is more real than blood, kept ringing in his ears. If such was
the case, he would find evidence of Reginald's intellectual burglaries,
and possibly be able to regain a part of his lost self that had been
snatched from him by the relentless dream-hand. But under no circumstances could he face Reginald in his present state
of mind. He was convinced that if in the fleeting vision of a moment the
other man's true nature should reveal itself to him, he would be so
terribly afraid as to shriek like a maniac. So he dressed particularly
slowly in the hope of avoiding an encounter with his host. But fate
thwarted this hope. Reginald, too, lingered that morning unusually long
over his coffee. He was just taking his last sip when Ernest entered the
room. His behaviour was of an almost bourgeois kindness. Benevolence
fairly beamed from his face. But to the boy's eyes it had assumed a new
and sinister expression. "You are late this morning, Ernest," he remarked in his mildest manner. "Have you been about town, or writing poetry? Both occupations are
equally unhealthy." As he said this he watched the young man with the
inscrutable smile that at moments was wont to curl upon his lips. Ernest
had once likened it to the smile of Mona Lisa, but now he detected in it
the suavity of the hypocrite and the leer of the criminal. He could not endure it; he could not look upon that face any longer. His
feet almost gave way under him, cold sweat gathered on his brow, and he
sank on a chair trembling and studiously avoiding the other man's gaze. At last Reginald rose to go. It seemed impossible to accuse this
splendid impersonation of vigorous manhood of cunning and underhand
methods, of plagiarisms and of theft. As he stood there he resembled
more than anything a beautiful tiger-cat, a wonderful thing of strength
and will-power, indomitable and insatiate. Yet who could tell whether
this strength was not, after all, parasitic. If Ethel's suspicions were
justified, then, indeed, more had been taken from him than he could ever
realise. For in that case it was his life-blood that circled in those
veins and the fire of his intellect that set those lips aflame! XXVII
Reginald Clarke had hardly left the room when Ernest hastily rose from
his seat. While it was likely that he would remain in undisturbed
possession of the apartment the whole morning, the stake at hand was too
great to permit of delay. Palpitating and a little uncertain, he entered the studio where,
scarcely a year ago, Reginald Clarke had bidden him welcome. Nothing had
changed there since then; only in Ernest's mind the room had assumed an
aspect of evil. The Antinous was there and the Faun and the Christ-head. But their juxtaposition to-day partook of the nature of the blasphemous. The statues of Shakespeare and Balzac seemed to frown from their
pedestals as his fingers were running through Reginald's papers. He
brushed against a semblance of Napoleon that was standing on the
writing-table, so that it toppled over and made a noise that weirdly
re-echoed in the silence of the room. At that moment a curious family
resemblance between Shakespeare, Balzac, Napoleon--and Reginald,
forcibly impressed itself upon his mind. It was the indisputable
something that marks those who are chosen to give ultimate expression to
some gigantic world-purpose. In Balzac's face it was diffused with
kindliness, in that of Napoleon sheer brutality predominated. The image
of one who was said to be the richest man of the world also rose before
his eyes. Perhaps it was only the play of his fevered imagination, but
he could have sworn that this man's features, too, bore the mark of
those unoriginal, great absorptive minds who, for better or for worse,
are born to rob and rule. They seemed to him monsters that know neither
justice nor pity, only the law of their being, the law of growth. Common weapons would not avail against such forces. Being one, they were
stronger than armies; nor could they be overcome in single combat. Stealth, trickery, the outfit of the knave, were legitimate weapons in
such a fight. In this case the end justified the means, even if the
latter included burglary. After a brief and fruitless search of the desk, he attempted to force
open a secret drawer, the presence of which he had one day accidentally
discovered. He tried a number of keys to no account, and was thinking of
giving up his researches for the day until he had procured a skeleton
key, when at last the lock gave way. The drawer disclosed a large file of manuscript. Ernest paused for a
moment to draw breath. The paper rustled under his nervous fingers. And
there--at last--his eyes lit upon a bulky bundle that bore this legend:
"_Leontina_, A Novel." It was true, then--all, his dream, Reginald's confession. And the house
that had opened its doors so kindly to him was the house of a Vampire! Finally curiosity overcame his burning indignation. He attempted to
read. The letters seemed to dance before his eyes--his hands trembled. At last he succeeded. The words that had first rolled over like drunken
soldiers now marched before his vision in orderly sequence. He was
delighted, then stunned. This was indeed authentic literature, there
could be no doubt about it. And it was his. He was still a poet, a great
poet. He drew a deep breath. Sudden joy trembled in his heart. This
story set down by a foreign hand had grown chapter by chapter in his
brain. There were some slight changes--slight deviations from the original
plan. A defter hand than his had retouched it here and there, but for
all that it remained his very own. It did not belong to that thief. The
blood welled to his cheek as he uttered this word that, applied to
Reginald, seemed almost sacrilegious. He had nearly reached the last chapter when he heard steps in the
hallway. Hurriedly he restored the manuscript to its place, closed the
drawer and left the room on tiptoe. It was Reginald. But he did not come alone. Someone was speaking to him. The voice seemed familiar. Ernest could not make out what it said. He
listened intently and--was it possible? | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
Jack? Surely he could not yet
have come in response to his note! What mysterious power, what dim
presentiment of his friend's plight had led him hither? But why did he
linger so long in Reginald's room, instead of hastening to greet him? Cautiously he drew nearer. This time he caught Jack's words:
"It would be very convenient and pleasant. Still, some way, I feel that
it is not right for me, of all men, to take his place here." "That need not concern you," Reginald deliberately replied; "the dear
boy expressed the desire to leave me within a fortnight. I think he will
go to some private sanitarium. His nerves are frightfully overstrained." "This seems hardly surprising after the terrible attack he had when you
read your play." "That idea has since then developed into a monomania." "I am awfully sorry for him. I cared for him much, perhaps too much. But
I always feared that he would come to such an end. Of late his letters
have been strangely unbalanced." "You will find him very much changed. In fact, he is no longer the
same." "No," said Jack, "he is no longer the friend I loved." Ernest clutched for the wall. His face was contorted with intense agony. Each word was like a nail driven into his flesh. Crucified upon the
cross of his own affection by the hand he loved, all white and trembling
he stood there. Tears rushed to his eyes, but he could not weep. Dry-eyed he reached his room and threw himself upon his bed. Thus he
lay--uncomforted and alone. XXVIII
Terrible as was his loneliness, a meeting with Jack would have been more
terrible. And, after all, it was true, a gulf had opened between them. Ethel alone could bring solace to his soul. There was a great void in
his heart which only she could fill. He hungered for the touch of her
hand. He longed for her presence strongly, as a wanton lusts for
pleasure and as sad men crave death. Noiselessly he stole to the door so as not to arouse the attention of
the other two men, whose every whisper pierced his heart like a dagger. When he came to Ethel's home, he found that she had gone out for a
breath of air. The servant ushered him into the parlor, and there he
waited, waited, waited for her. Greatly calmed by his walk, he turned the details of Clarke's
conversation over in his mind, and the conviction grew upon him that
the friend of his boyhood was not to blame for his course of action. Reginald probably had encircled Jack's soul with his demoniacal
influence and singled him out for another victim. That must never be. It
was his turn to save now. He would warn his friend of the danger that
threatened him, even if his words should be spoken into the wind. For
Reginald, with an ingenuity almost satanic, had already suggested that
the delusion of former days had developed into a monomania, and any
attempt on his part to warn Jack would only seem to confirm this theory. In that case only one way was left open. He must plead with Reginald
himself, confront at all risks that snatcher of souls. To-night he would
not fall asleep. He would keep his vigil. And if Reginald should
approach his room, if in some way he felt the direful presence, he must
speak out, threaten if need be, to save his friend from ruin. He had
fully determined upon this course when a cry of joy from Ethel, who had
just returned from her walk, interrupted his reverie. But her gladness
changed to anxiety when she saw how pale he was. Ernest recounted to
her the happenings of the day, from the discovery of his novel in
Reginald's desk to the conversation which he had accidentally overheard. He noticed that her features brightened as he drew near the end of his
tale. "Was your novel finished?" she suddenly asked. "I think so." "Then you are out of danger. He will want nothing else of you. But you
should have taken it with you." "I had only sufficient presence of mind to slip it back into the drawer. To-morrow I shall simply demand it." "You will do nothing of the kind. It is in his handwriting, and you have
no legal proof that it is yours. You must take it away secretly. And he
will not dare to reclaim it." "And Jack?" She had quite forgotten Jack. Women are invariably selfish for those
they love. "You must warn him," she replied. "He would laugh at me. However, I must speak to Reginald." "It is of no avail to speak to him. At least, you must not do so before
you have obtained the manuscript. It would unnecessarily jeopardise our
plans." "And after?" "After, perhaps. But you must not expose yourself to any danger." "No, dear," he said, and kissed her; "what danger is there, provided I
keep my wits about me? He steals upon men only in their sleep and in the
dark." "Be careful, nevertheless." "I shall. In fact, I think he is not at home at this moment. If I go now
I may be able to get hold of the manuscript and hide it before he
returns." "I cannot but tremble to think of you in that house." "You shall have no more reason to tremble in a day or two." "Shall I see you to-morrow?" "I don't think so. I must go over my papers and things so as to be ready
at any moment to leave the house." "And then?" "Then--"
He took her in his arms and looked long and deeply into her eyes. "Yes," she replied--"at least, perhaps." Then he turned to go, resolute and happy. How strangely he had matured
since the summer! Her heart swelled with the consciousness that it was
her love that had effected this transformation. "As I cannot expect you to-morrow, I shall probably go to the opera, but
I shall be at home before midnight. Will you call me up then? A word
from you will put me at ease for the night, even if it comes over the
telephone." "I will call you up. We moderns have an advantage over the ancients in
this respect: the twentieth-century Pyramus can speak to Thisbe even if
innumerable walls sever his body from hers." "A quaint conceit! But let us hope that our love-story will end less
tragically," she said, tenderly caressing his hair. "Oh, we shall be
happy, you and I," she added, after a while. "The iron finger of fate
that lay so heavily on our lives is now withdrawn. Almost withdrawn. Yes, almost. Only almost." And then a sudden fear overcame her. "No," she cried, "do not go, do not go! Stay with me; stay here. I feel
so frightened. I don't know what comes over me. I am afraid--afraid for
you." "No, dear," he rejoined, "you need not be afraid. In your heart you
don't want me to desert a friend, and, besides, leave the best part of
my artistic life in Reginald's clutch." "Why should you expose yourself to God knows what danger for a friend
who is ready to betray you?" "You forget friendship is a gift. If it exacts payment in any form, it
is no longer either friendship or a gift. And you yourself have assured
me that I have nothing to fear from Reginald. I have nothing to give to
him." She rallied under his words and had regained her self-possession when
the door closed behind him. He walked a few blocks very briskly. Then
his pace slackened. | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
Her words had unsettled him a little, and when he
reached home he did not at once resume his exploration of Reginald's
papers. He had hardly lit a cigarette when, at an unusually early hour,
he heard Reginald's key in the lock. Quickly he turned the light out and in the semi-darkness, lit up by an
electric lantern below, barricaded the door as on the previous night. Then he went to bed without finding sleep. Supreme silence reigned over the house. Even the elevator had ceased to
run. Ernest's brain was all ear. He heard Reginald walking up and down
in the studio. Not the smallest movement escaped his attention. Thus
hours passed. When the clock struck twelve, he was still walking up and
down, down and up, up and down. One o'clock. Still the measured beat of his footfall had not ceased. There was
something hypnotic in the regular tread. Nature at last exacted its toll
from the boy. He fell asleep. Hardly had he closed his eyes when again that horrible nightmare--no
longer a nightmare--tormented him. Again he felt the pointed delicate
fingers carefully feeling their way along the innumerable tangled
threads of nerve-matter that lead to the innermost recesses of self....
A subconscious something strove to arouse him, and he felt the fingers
softly withdrawn. He could have sworn that he heard the scurrying of feet in the room. Bathed in perspiration he made a leap for the electric light. But there was no sign of any human presence. The barricade at the door
was undisturbed. But fear like a great wind filled the wings of his
soul. Yet there was nothing, nothing to warrant his conviction that Reginald
Clarke had been with him only a few moments ago, plying his horrible
trade. The large mirror above the fireplace only showed him his own
face, white, excited,--the face of a madman. XXIX
The next morning's mail brought a letter from Ethel, a few lines of
encouragement and affection. Yes, she was right; it would not do for him
to stay under one roof with Reginald any longer. He must only obtain the
manuscript and, if possible, surprise him in the attempt to exercise his
mysterious and criminal power. Then he would be in the position to
dictate terms and to demand Jack's safety as the price of his silence. Reginald, however, had closeted himself that day in his studio busily
writing. Only the clatter of his typewriter announced his presence in
the house. There was no chance for conversation or for obtaining the
precious manuscript of "Leontina." Meanwhile Ernest was looking over his papers and preparing everything
for a quick departure. Glancing over old letters and notes, he became
readily interested and hardly noticed the passage of the hours. When the night came he only partly undressed and threw himself upon the
bed. It was now ten. At twelve he had promised Ethel to speak to her
over the telephone. He was determined not to sleep at all that night. At
last he would discover whether or not on the previous and other nights
Reginald had secretly entered his room. When one hour had passed without incident, his attention relaxed a
little. His eyes were gradually closing when suddenly something seemed
to stir at the door. The Chinese vase came rattling to the floor. At once Ernest sprang up. His face had blanched with terror. It was
whiter than the linen in which they wrap the dead. But his soul was
resolute. He touched a button and the electric light illuminated the whole
chamber. There was no nook for even a shadow to hide. Yet there was no
one to be seen. From without the door came no sound. Suddenly something
soft touched his foot. He gathered all his will power so as not to
break out into a frenzied shriek. Then he laughed, not a hearty laugh,
to be sure. A tiny nose and a tail gracefully curled were brushing
against him. The source of the disturbance was a little Maltese cat, his
favourite, that by some chance had remained in his room. After its essay
at midnight gymnastics the animal quieted down and lay purring at the
foot of his bed. The presence of a living thing was a certain comfort, and the reservoir
of his strength was well nigh exhausted. He dimly remembered his promise to Ethel, but his lids drooped with
sheer weariness. Perhaps an hour passed in this way, when suddenly his
blood congealed with dread. He felt the presence of the hand of Reginald
Clarke--unmistakably--groping in his brain as if searching for something
that had still escaped him. He tried to move, to cry out, but his limbs were paralysed. When, by a
superhuman effort, he at last succeeded in shaking off the numbness that
held him enchained, he awoke just in time to see a figure, that of a
man, disappearing in the wall that separated Reginald's apartments from
his room.... This time it was no delusion of the senses. He heard something like a
secret door softly closing behind retreating steps. A sudden fierce
anger seized him. He was oblivious of the danger of the terrible power
of the older man, oblivious of the love he had once borne him, oblivious
of everything save the sense of outraged humanity and outraged right. The law permits us to shoot a burglar who goes through our pockets at
night. Must he tolerate the ravages of this a thousand times more
dastardly and dangerous spiritual thief? Was Reginald to enjoy the fruit
of other men's labour unpunished? Was he to continue growing into the
mightiest literary factor of the century by preying upon his betters? Abel, Walkham, Ethel, he, Jack, were they all to be victims of this
insatiable monster? Was this force resistless as it was relentless? No, a thousand times, no! He dashed himself against the wall at the place where the shadow of
Reginald Clarke had disappeared. In doing so he touched upon a secret
spring. The wall gave way noiselessly. Speechless with rage he crossed
the next room and the one adjoining it, and stood in Reginald's studio. The room was brilliantly lighted, and Reginald, still dressed, was
seated at his writing-table scribbling notes upon little scraps of paper
in his accustomed manner. At Ernest's approach he looked up without evincing the least sign of
terror or surprise. Calmly, almost majestically, he folded his arms over
his breast, but there was a menacing glitter in his eyes as he
confronted his victim. XXX
Silently the two men faced each other. Then Ernest hissed:
"Thief!" Reginald shrugged his shoulders. "Vampire!" "So Ethel has infected you with her absurd fancies! Poor boy! I am
afraid.... I have been wanting to tell you for some time.... But I
think... We have reached the parting of our road!" "And that you dare to tell me!" The more he raged, the calmer Reginald seemed to become. "Really," he said, "I fail to understand.... I must ask you to leave my
room!" "You fail to understand? You cad!" Ernest cried. He stepped to the
writing-table and opened the secret drawer with a blow. A bundle of
manuscripts fell on the floor with a strange rustling noise. Then,
seizing his own story, he hurled it upon the table. | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
And behold--the last
pages bore corrections in ink that could have been made only a few
minutes ago! Reginald smiled. "Have you come to play havoc with my manuscripts?" he
remarked. "Your manuscripts? Reginald Clarke, you are an impudent impostor! You
have written no word that is your own. You are an embezzler of the mind,
strutting through life in borrowed and stolen plumes!" And at once the mask fell from Reginald's face. "Why stolen?" he coolly said, with a slight touch of irritation. "I
absorb. I appropriate. That is the most any artist can say for himself. God creates; man moulds. He gives us the colours; we mix them." "That is not the question. I charge you with having wilfully and
criminally interfered in my life; I charge you with having robbed me of
what was mine; I charge you with being utterly vile and rapacious, a
hypocrite and a parasite!" "Foolish boy," Reginald rejoined austerely. "It is through me that the
best in you shall survive, even as the obscure Elizabethans live in him
of Avon. Shakespeare absorbed what was great in little men--a greatness
that otherwise would have perished--and gave it a setting, a life." "A thief may plead the same. I understand you better. It is your
inordinate vanity that prompts you to abuse your monstrous power." "You err. Self-love has never entered into my actions. I am careless of
personal fame. Look at me, boy! As I stand before you I am Homer, I am
Shakespeare ... I am every cosmic manifestation in art. Men have doubted
in each incarnation my individual existence. Historians have more to
tell of the meanest Athenian scribbler or Elizabethan poetaster than of
me. The radiance of my work obscured my very self. I care not. I have a
mission. I am a servant of the Lord. I am the vessel that bears the
Host!" He stood up at full length, the personification of grandeur and power. A
tremendous force trembled in his very finger tips. He was like a
gigantic dynamo, charged with the might of ten thousand magnetic storms
that shake the earth in its orbit and lash myriads of planets through
infinities of space.... Under ordinary circumstances Ernest or any other man would have quailed
before him. But the boy in that epic moment had grown out of his
stature. He felt the sword of vengeance in his hands; to him was
intrusted the cause of Abel and of Walkham, of Ethel and of Jack. His
was the struggle of the individual soul against the same blind and cruel
fate that in the past had fashioned the ichthyosaurus and the mastodon. "By what right," he cried, "do you assume that you are the literary
Messiah? Who appointed you? What divine power has made you the steward
of my mite and of theirs whom you have robbed?" "I am a light-bearer. I tread the high hills of mankind.... I point the
way to the future. I light up the abysses of the past. Were not my
stature gigantic, how could I hold the torch in all men's sight? The
very souls that I tread underfoot realise, as their dying gaze follows
me, the possibilities with which the future is big.... Eternally secure,
I carry the essence of what is cosmic ... of what is divine.... I am
Homer ... Goethe ... Shakespeare.... I am an embodiment of the same
force of which Alexander, Cæsar, Confucius and the Christos were also
embodiments.... None so strong as to resist me." A sudden madness overcame Ernest at this boast. He must strike now or
never. He must rid humanity of this dangerous maniac--this demon of
strength. With a power ten times intensified, he raised a heavy chair so
as to hurl it at Reginald's head and crush it. Reginald stood there calmly, a smile upon his lips.... Primal cruelties
rose from the depth of his nature.... Still he smiled, turning his
luminous gaze upon the boy ... and, behold ... Ernest's hand began to
shake ... the chair fell from his grasp.... He tried to call for help,
but no sound issued from his lips.... Utterly paralysed he
confronted ... the Force....
Minutes--eternities passed. And still those eyes were fixed upon him. But this was no longer Reginald! It was all brain ... only brain ... a tremendous brain-machine ...
infinitely complex ... infinitely strong. Not more than a mile away
Ethel endeavoured to call to him through the night. The telephone rang,
once, twice, thrice, insistingly. But Ernest heard it not. Something
dragged him ... dragged the nerves from his body dragged, dragged,
dragged.... It was an irresistible suction ... pitiless ... passionless
... immense. Sparks, blue, crimson and violet, seemed to play around the living
battery. It reached the finest fibres of his mind.... Slowly ... every
trace of mentality disappeared.... First the will ... then feeling ...
judgment ... memory ... fear even.... All that was stored in his
brain-cells came forth to be absorbed by that mighty engine.... The Princess With the Yellow Veil appeared ... flitted across the room
and melted away. She was followed by childhood memories ... girls'
heads, boys' faces.... He saw his dead mother waving her arms to him....
An expression of death-agony distorted the placid features.... Then,
throwing a kiss to him, she, too, disappeared. Picture on picture
followed.... Words of love that he had spoken ... sins, virtues,
magnanimities, meannesses, terrors ... mathematical formulas even, and
snatches of songs. Leontina came and was swallowed up.... No, it was
Ethel who was trying to speak to him ... trying to warn.... She waved
her hands in frantic despair.... She was gone.... A pale face ... dark,
dishevelled hair.... Jack.... How he had changed! He was in the circle
of the vampire's transforming might. "Jack," he cried. Surely Jack had
something to explain ... something to tell him ... some word that if
spoken would bring rest to his soul. He saw the words rise to the boy's
lips, but before he had time to utter them his image also had vanished. And Reginald ... Reginald, too, was gone.... There was only the mighty
brain ... panting ... whirling.... Then there was nothing.... The
annihilation of Ernest Fielding was complete. Vacantly he stared at the walls, at the room and at his master. The
latter was wiping the sweat from his forehead. He breathed deeply.... The flush of youth spread over his features.... His eyes sparkled with a
new and dangerous brilliancy.... He took the thing that had once been
Ernest Fielding by the hand and led it to its room. XXXI
With the first flush of the morning Ethel appeared at the door of the
house on Riverside Drive. She had not heard from Ernest, and had been
unable to obtain connection with him at the telephone. Anxiety had
hastened her steps. She brushed against Jack, who was also directing his
steps to the abode of Reginald Clarke. At the same time something that resembled Ernest Fielding passed from
the house of the Vampire. It was a dull and brutish thing, hideously
transformed, without a vestige of mind. "Mr. Fielding," cried Ethel, beside herself with fear as she saw him
descending. "Ernest!" | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
Jack gasped, no less startled at the change in his friend's
appearance. Ernest's head followed the source of the sound, but no spark of
recognition illumined the deadness of his eyes. Without a present and
without a past ... blindly ... a gibbering idiot ... he stumbled down | Viereck, George Sylvester - The House of the Vampire |
CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY
(New Series)
* * * * *
THE
CASTLE OF OTRANTO. * * * * *
BY
HORACE WALPOLE. [Picture: Decorative graphic]
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED
_LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_
1901
INTRODUCTION
HORACE WALPOLE was the youngest son of Sir Robert Walpole, the great
statesman, who died Earl of Orford. He was born in 1717, the year in
which his father resigned office, remaining in opposition for almost
three years before his return to a long tenure of power. Horace Walpole
was educated at Eton, where he formed a school friendship with Thomas
Gray, who was but a few months older. In 1739 Gray was
travelling-companion with Walpole in France and Italy until they differed
and parted; but the friendship was afterwards renewed, and remained firm
to the end. Horace Walpole went from Eton to King’s College, Cambridge,
and entered Parliament in 1741, the year before his father’s final
resignation and acceptance of an earldom. His way of life was made easy
to him. As Usher of the Exchequer, Comptroller of the Pipe, and Clerk of
the Estreats in the Exchequer, he received nearly two thousand a year for
doing nothing, lived with his father, and amused himself. Horace Walpole idled, and amused himself with the small life of the
fashionable world to which he was proud of belonging, though he had a
quick eye for its vanities. He had social wit, and liked to put it to
small uses. But he was not an empty idler, and there were seasons when
he could become a sharp judge of himself. “I am sensible,” he wrote to
his most intimate friend, “I am sensible of having more follies and
weaknesses and fewer real good qualities than most men. I sometimes
reflect on this, though, I own, too seldom. I always want to begin
acting like a man, and a sensible one, which I think I might be if I
would.” He had deep home affections, and, under many polite
affectations, plenty of good sense. Horace Walpole’s father died in 1745. The eldest son, who succeeded to
the earldom, died in 1751, and left a son, George, who was for a time
insane, and lived until 1791. As George left no child, the title and
estates passed to Horace Walpole, then seventy-four years old, and the
only uncle who survived. Horace Walpole thus became Earl of Orford,
during the last six years of his life. As to the title, he said that he
felt himself being called names in his old age. He died unmarried, in
the year 1797, at the age of eighty. He had turned his house at Strawberry Hill, by the Thames, near
Twickenham, into a Gothic villa—eighteenth-century Gothic—and amused
himself by spending freely upon its adornment with such things as were
then fashionable as objects of taste. But he delighted also in his
flowers and his trellises of roses, and the quiet Thames. When confined
by gout to his London house in Arlington Street, flowers from Strawberry
Hill and a bird were necessary consolations. He set up also at
Strawberry Hill a private printing press, at which he printed his friend
Gray’s poems, also in 1758 his own “Catalogue of the Royal and Noble
Authors of England,” and five volumes of “Anecdotes of Painting in
England,” between 1762 and 1771. Horace Walpole produced _The Castle of Otranto_ in 1765, at the mature
age of forty-eight. It was suggested by a dream from which he said he
waked one morning, and of which “all I could recover was, that I had
thought myself in an ancient castle (a very natural dream for a head like
mine, filled with Gothic story), and that on the uppermost banister of a
great staircase I saw a gigantic hand in armour. In the evening I sat
down and began to write, without knowing in the least what I intended to
say or relate.” So began the tale which professed to be translated by
“William Marshal, gentleman, from the Italian of Onuphro Muralto, canon
of the Church of St. Nicholas, at Otranto.” It was written in two
months. Walpole’s friend Gray reported to him that at Cambridge the book
made “some of them cry a little, and all in general afraid to go to bed
o’ nights.” _The Castle of Otranto_ was, in its own way, an early sign
of the reaction towards romance in the latter part of the last century. This gives it interest. But it has had many followers, and the hardy
modern reader, when he reads Gray’s note from Cambridge, needs to be
reminded of its date. H. M.
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. The following work was found in the library of an ancient Catholic family
in the north of England. It was printed at Naples, in the black letter,
in the year 1529. How much sooner it was written does not appear. The
principal incidents are such as were believed in the darkest ages of
Christianity; but the language and conduct have nothing that savours of
barbarism. The style is the purest Italian. If the story was written near the time when it is supposed to have
happened, it must have been between 1095, the era of the first Crusade,
and 1243, the date of the last, or not long afterwards. There is no
other circumstance in the work that can lead us to guess at the period in
which the scene is laid: the names of the actors are evidently
fictitious, and probably disguised on purpose: yet the Spanish names of
the domestics seem to indicate that this work was not composed until the
establishment of the Arragonian Kings in Naples had made Spanish
appellations familiar in that country. The beauty of the diction, and
the zeal of the author (moderated, however, by singular judgment) concur
to make me think that the date of the composition was little antecedent
to that of the impression. Letters were then in their most flourishing
state in Italy, and contributed to dispel the empire of superstition, at
that time so forcibly attacked by the reformers. It is not unlikely that
an artful priest might endeavour to turn their own arms on the
innovators, and might avail himself of his abilities as an author to
confirm the populace in their ancient errors and superstitions. If this
was his view, he has certainly acted with signal address. Such a work as
the following would enslave a hundred vulgar minds beyond half the books
of controversy that have been written from the days of Luther to the
present hour. This solution of the author’s motives is, however, offered as a mere
conjecture. Whatever his views were, or whatever effects the execution
of them might have, his work can only be laid before the public at
present as a matter of entertainment. Even as such, some apology for it
is necessary. Miracles, visions, necromancy, dreams, and other
preternatural events, are exploded now even from romances. That was not
the case when our author wrote; much less when the story itself is
supposed to have happened. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
Belief in every kind of prodigy was so
established in those dark ages, that an author would not be faithful to
the manners of the times, who should omit all mention of them. He is not
bound to believe them himself, but he must represent his actors as
believing them. If this air of the miraculous is excused, the reader will find nothing
else unworthy of his perusal. Allow the possibility of the facts, and
all the actors comport themselves as persons would do in their situation. There is no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or unnecessary
descriptions. Everything tends directly to the catastrophe. Never is
the reader’s attention relaxed. The rules of the drama are almost
observed throughout the conduct of the piece. The characters are well
drawn, and still better maintained. Terror, the author’s principal
engine, prevents the story from ever languishing; and it is so often
contrasted by pity, that the mind is kept up in a constant vicissitude of
interesting passions. Some persons may perhaps think the characters of the domestics too little
serious for the general cast of the story; but besides their opposition
to the principal personages, the art of the author is very observable in
his conduct of the subalterns. They discover many passages essential to
the story, which could not be well brought to light but by their
_naïveté_ and simplicity. In particular, the womanish terror and foibles
of Bianca, in the last chapter, conduce essentially towards advancing the
catastrophe. It is natural for a translator to be prejudiced in favour of his adopted
work. More impartial readers may not be so much struck with the beauties
of this piece as I was. Yet I am not blind to my author’s defects. I
could wish he had grounded his plan on a more useful moral than this:
that “the sins of fathers are visited on their children to the third and
fourth generation.” I doubt whether, in his time, any more than at
present, ambition curbed its appetite of dominion from the dread of so
remote a punishment. And yet this moral is weakened by that less direct
insinuation, that even such anathema may be diverted by devotion to St.
Nicholas. Here the interest of the Monk plainly gets the better of the
judgment of the author. However, with all its faults, I have no doubt
but the English reader will be pleased with a sight of this performance. The piety that reigns throughout, the lessons of virtue that are
inculcated, and the rigid purity of the sentiments, exempt this work from
the censure to which romances are but too liable. Should it meet with
the success I hope for, I may be encouraged to reprint the original
Italian, though it will tend to depreciate my own labour. Our language
falls far short of the charms of the Italian, both for variety and
harmony. The latter is peculiarly excellent for simple narrative. It is
difficult in English to relate without falling too low or rising too
high; a fault obviously occasioned by the little care taken to speak pure
language in common conversation. Every Italian or Frenchman of any rank
piques himself on speaking his own tongue correctly and with choice. I
cannot flatter myself with having done justice to my author in this
respect: his style is as elegant as his conduct of the passions is
masterly. It is a pity that he did not apply his talents to what they
were evidently proper for—the theatre. I will detain the reader no longer, but to make one short remark. Though
the machinery is invention, and the names of the actors imaginary, I
cannot but believe that the groundwork of the story is founded on truth. The scene is undoubtedly laid in some real castle. The author seems
frequently, without design, to describe particular parts. “The chamber,”
says he, “on the right hand;” “the door on the left hand;” “the distance
from the chapel to Conrad’s apartment:” these and other passages are
strong presumptions that the author had some certain building in his eye. Curious persons, who have leisure to employ in such researches, may
possibly discover in the Italian writers the foundation on which our
author has built. If a catastrophe, at all resembling that which he
describes, is believed to have given rise to this work, it will
contribute to interest the reader, and will make the “Castle of Otranto”
a still more moving story. SONNET TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY MARY COKE. The gentle maid, whose hapless tale
These melancholy pages speak;
Say, gracious lady, shall she fail
To draw the tear adown thy cheek? No; never was thy pitying breast
Insensible to human woes;
Tender, tho’ firm, it melts distrest
For weaknesses it never knows. Oh! guard the marvels I relate
Of fell ambition scourg’d by fate,
From reason’s peevish blame. Blest with thy smile, my dauntless sail
I dare expand to Fancy’s gale,
For sure thy smiles are Fame. H. W.
CHAPTER I.
Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter: the latter, a
most beautiful virgin, aged eighteen, was called Matilda. Conrad, the
son, was three years younger, a homely youth, sickly, and of no promising
disposition; yet he was the darling of his father, who never showed any
symptoms of affection to Matilda. Manfred had contracted a marriage for
his son with the Marquis of Vicenza’s daughter, Isabella; and she had
already been delivered by her guardians into the hands of Manfred, that
he might celebrate the wedding as soon as Conrad’s infirm state of health
would permit. Manfred’s impatience for this ceremonial was remarked by his family and
neighbours. The former, indeed, apprehending the severity of their
Prince’s disposition, did not dare to utter their surmises on this
precipitation. Hippolita, his wife, an amiable lady, did sometimes
venture to represent the danger of marrying their only son so early,
considering his great youth, and greater infirmities; but she never
received any other answer than reflections on her own sterility, who had
given him but one heir. His tenants and subjects were less cautious in
their discourses. They attributed this hasty wedding to the Prince’s
dread of seeing accomplished an ancient prophecy, which was said to have
pronounced that the castle and lordship of Otranto “should pass from the
present family, whenever the real owner should be grown too large to
inhabit it.” It was difficult to make any sense of this prophecy; and
still less easy to conceive what it had to do with the marriage in
question. Yet these mysteries, or contradictions, did not make the
populace adhere the less to their opinion. Young Conrad’s birthday was fixed for his espousals. The company was
assembled in the chapel of the Castle, and everything ready for beginning
the divine office, when Conrad himself was missing. Manfred, impatient
of the least delay, and who had not observed his son retire, despatched
one of his attendants to summon the young Prince. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
The servant, who had
not stayed long enough to have crossed the court to Conrad’s apartment,
came running back breathless, in a frantic manner, his eyes staring, and
foaming at the mouth. He said nothing, but pointed to the court. The company were struck with terror and amazement. The Princess
Hippolita, without knowing what was the matter, but anxious for her son,
swooned away. Manfred, less apprehensive than enraged at the
procrastination of the nuptials, and at the folly of his domestic, asked
imperiously what was the matter? The fellow made no answer, but
continued pointing towards the courtyard; and at last, after repeated
questions put to him, cried out, “Oh! the helmet! the helmet!”
In the meantime, some of the company had run into the court, from whence
was heard a confused noise of shrieks, horror, and surprise. Manfred,
who began to be alarmed at not seeing his son, went himself to get
information of what occasioned this strange confusion. Matilda remained
endeavouring to assist her mother, and Isabella stayed for the same
purpose, and to avoid showing any impatience for the bridegroom, for
whom, in truth, she had conceived little affection. The first thing that struck Manfred’s eyes was a group of his servants
endeavouring to raise something that appeared to him a mountain of sable
plumes. He gazed without believing his sight. “What are ye doing?” cried Manfred, wrathfully; “where is my son?”
A volley of voices replied, “Oh! my Lord! the Prince! the Prince! the
helmet! the helmet!”
Shocked with these lamentable sounds, and dreading he knew not what, he
advanced hastily,—but what a sight for a father’s eyes!—he beheld his
child dashed to pieces, and almost buried under an enormous helmet, an
hundred times more large than any casque ever made for human being, and
shaded with a proportionable quantity of black feathers. The horror of the spectacle, the ignorance of all around how this
misfortune had happened, and above all, the tremendous phenomenon before
him, took away the Prince’s speech. Yet his silence lasted longer than
even grief could occasion. He fixed his eyes on what he wished in vain
to believe a vision; and seemed less attentive to his loss, than buried
in meditation on the stupendous object that had occasioned it. He
touched, he examined the fatal casque; nor could even the bleeding
mangled remains of the young Prince divert the eyes of Manfred from the
portent before him. All who had known his partial fondness for young Conrad, were as much
surprised at their Prince’s insensibility, as thunderstruck themselves at
the miracle of the helmet. They conveyed the disfigured corpse into the
hall, without receiving the least direction from Manfred. As little was
he attentive to the ladies who remained in the chapel. On the contrary,
without mentioning the unhappy princesses, his wife and daughter, the
first sounds that dropped from Manfred’s lips were, “Take care of the
Lady Isabella.”
The domestics, without observing the singularity of this direction, were
guided by their affection to their mistress, to consider it as peculiarly
addressed to her situation, and flew to her assistance. They conveyed
her to her chamber more dead than alive, and indifferent to all the
strange circumstances she heard, except the death of her son. Matilda, who doted on her mother, smothered her own grief and amazement,
and thought of nothing but assisting and comforting her afflicted parent. Isabella, who had been treated by Hippolita like a daughter, and who
returned that tenderness with equal duty and affection, was scarce less
assiduous about the Princess; at the same time endeavouring to partake
and lessen the weight of sorrow which she saw Matilda strove to suppress,
for whom she had conceived the warmest sympathy of friendship. Yet her
own situation could not help finding its place in her thoughts. She felt
no concern for the death of young Conrad, except commiseration; and she
was not sorry to be delivered from a marriage which had promised her
little felicity, either from her destined bridegroom, or from the severe
temper of Manfred, who, though he had distinguished her by great
indulgence, had imprinted her mind with terror, from his causeless rigour
to such amiable princesses as Hippolita and Matilda. While the ladies were conveying the wretched mother to her bed, Manfred
remained in the court, gazing on the ominous casque, and regardless of
the crowd which the strangeness of the event had now assembled around
him. The few words he articulated, tended solely to inquiries, whether
any man knew from whence it could have come? Nobody could give him the
least information. However, as it seemed to be the sole object of his
curiosity, it soon became so to the rest of the spectators, whose
conjectures were as absurd and improbable, as the catastrophe itself was
unprecedented. In the midst of their senseless guesses, a young peasant,
whom rumour had drawn thither from a neighbouring village, observed that
the miraculous helmet was exactly like that on the figure in black marble
of Alfonso the Good, one of their former princes, in the church of St.
Nicholas. “Villain! What sayest thou?” cried Manfred, starting from his trance in
a tempest of rage, and seizing the young man by the collar; “how darest
thou utter such treason? Thy life shall pay for it.”
The spectators, who as little comprehended the cause of the Prince’s fury
as all the rest they had seen, were at a loss to unravel this new
circumstance. The young peasant himself was still more astonished, not
conceiving how he had offended the Prince. Yet recollecting himself,
with a mixture of grace and humility, he disengaged himself from
Manfred’s grip, and then with an obeisance, which discovered more
jealousy of innocence than dismay, he asked, with respect, of what he was
guilty? Manfred, more enraged at the vigour, however decently exerted,
with which the young man had shaken off his hold, than appeased by his
submission, ordered his attendants to seize him, and, if he had not been
withheld by his friends whom he had invited to the nuptials, would have
poignarded the peasant in their arms. During this altercation, some of the vulgar spectators had run to the
great church, which stood near the castle, and came back open-mouthed,
declaring that the helmet was missing from Alfonso’s statue. Manfred, at
this news, grew perfectly frantic; and, as if he sought a subject on
which to vent the tempest within him, he rushed again on the young
peasant, crying—
“Villain! Monster! Sorcerer! ’tis thou hast done this! | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
’tis thou hast
slain my son!”
The mob, who wanted some object within the scope of their capacities, on
whom they might discharge their bewildered reasoning, caught the words
from the mouth of their lord, and re-echoed—
“Ay, ay; ’tis he, ’tis he: he has stolen the helmet from good Alfonso’s
tomb, and dashed out the brains of our young Prince with it,” never
reflecting how enormous the disproportion was between the marble helmet
that had been in the church, and that of steel before their eyes; nor how
impossible it was for a youth seemingly not twenty, to wield a piece of
armour of so prodigious a weight. The folly of these ejaculations brought Manfred to himself: yet whether
provoked at the peasant having observed the resemblance between the two
helmets, and thereby led to the farther discovery of the absence of that
in the church, or wishing to bury any such rumour under so impertinent a
supposition, he gravely pronounced that the young man was certainly a
necromancer, and that till the Church could take cognisance of the
affair, he would have the Magician, whom they had thus detected, kept
prisoner under the helmet itself, which he ordered his attendants to
raise, and place the young man under it; declaring he should be kept
there without food, with which his own infernal art might furnish him. It was in vain for the youth to represent against this preposterous
sentence: in vain did Manfred’s friends endeavour to divert him from this
savage and ill-grounded resolution. The generality were charmed with
their lord’s decision, which, to their apprehensions, carried great
appearance of justice, as the Magician was to be punished by the very
instrument with which he had offended: nor were they struck with the
least compunction at the probability of the youth being starved, for they
firmly believed that, by his diabolic skill, he could easily supply
himself with nutriment. Manfred thus saw his commands even cheerfully obeyed; and appointing a
guard with strict orders to prevent any food being conveyed to the
prisoner, he dismissed his friends and attendants, and retired to his own
chamber, after locking the gates of the castle, in which he suffered none
but his domestics to remain. In the meantime, the care and zeal of the young Ladies had brought the
Princess Hippolita to herself, who amidst the transports of her own
sorrow frequently demanded news of her lord, would have dismissed her
attendants to watch over him, and at last enjoined Matilda to leave her,
and visit and comfort her father. Matilda, who wanted no affectionate
duty to Manfred, though she trembled at his austerity, obeyed the orders
of Hippolita, whom she tenderly recommended to Isabella; and inquiring of
the domestics for her father, was informed that he was retired to his
chamber, and had commanded that nobody should have admittance to him. Concluding that he was immersed in sorrow for the death of her brother,
and fearing to renew his tears by the sight of his sole remaining child,
she hesitated whether she should break in upon his affliction; yet
solicitude for him, backed by the commands of her mother, encouraged her
to venture disobeying the orders he had given; a fault she had never been
guilty of before. The gentle timidity of her nature made her pause for some minutes at his
door. She heard him traverse his chamber backwards, and forwards with
disordered steps; a mood which increased her apprehensions. She was,
however, just going to beg admittance, when Manfred suddenly opened the
door; and as it was now twilight, concurring with the disorder of his
mind, he did not distinguish the person, but asked angrily, who it was? Matilda replied, trembling—
“My dearest father, it is I, your daughter.”
Manfred, stepping back hastily, cried, “Begone! I do not want a
daughter;” and flinging back abruptly, clapped the door against the
terrified Matilda. She was too well acquainted with her father’s impetuosity to venture a
second intrusion. When she had a little recovered the shock of so bitter
a reception, she wiped away her tears to prevent the additional stab that
the knowledge of it would give to Hippolita, who questioned her in the
most anxious terms on the health of Manfred, and how he bore his loss. Matilda assured her he was well, and supported his misfortune with manly
fortitude. “But will he not let me see him?” said Hippolita mournfully; “will he not
permit me to blend my tears with his, and shed a mother’s sorrows in the
bosom of her Lord? Or do you deceive me, Matilda? I know how Manfred
doted on his son: is not the stroke too heavy for him? has he not sunk
under it? You do not answer me—alas! I dread the worst!—Raise me, my
maidens; I will, I will see my Lord. Bear me to him instantly: he is
dearer to me even than my children.”
Matilda made signs to Isabella to prevent Hippolita’s rising; and both
those lovely young women were using their gentle violence to stop and
calm the Princess, when a servant, on the part of Manfred, arrived and
told Isabella that his Lord demanded to speak with her. “With me!” cried Isabella. “Go,” said Hippolita, relieved by a message from her Lord: “Manfred
cannot support the sight of his own family. He thinks you less
disordered than we are, and dreads the shock of my grief. Console him,
dear Isabella, and tell him I will smother my own anguish rather than add
to his.”
As it was now evening the servant who conducted Isabella bore a torch
before her. When they came to Manfred, who was walking impatiently about
the gallery, he started, and said hastily—
“Take away that light, and begone.”
Then shutting the door impetuously, he flung himself upon a bench against
the wall, and bade Isabella sit by him. She obeyed trembling. “I sent for you, Lady,” said he—and then stopped under great appearance
of confusion. “My Lord!”
“Yes, I sent for you on a matter of great moment,” resumed he. “Dry your
tears, young Lady—you have lost your bridegroom. Yes, cruel fate! and I
have lost the hopes of my race! But Conrad was not worthy of your
beauty.”
“How, my Lord!” said Isabella; “sure you do not suspect me of not feeling
the concern I ought: my duty and affection would have always—”
“Think no more of him,” interrupted Manfred; “he was a sickly, puny
child, and Heaven has perhaps taken him away, that I might not trust the
honours of my house on so frail a foundation. The line of Manfred calls
for numerous supports. My foolish fondness for that boy blinded the eyes
of my prudence—but it is better as it is. I hope, in a few years, to
have reason to rejoice at the death of Conrad.”
Words cannot paint the astonishment of Isabella. At first she
apprehended that grief had disordered Manfred’s understanding. Her next
thought suggested that this strange discourse was designed to ensnare
her: she feared that Manfred had perceived her indifference for his son:
and in consequence of that idea she replied—
“Good my Lord, do not doubt my tenderness: my heart would have
accompanied my hand. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
Conrad would have engrossed all my care; and
wherever fate shall dispose of me, I shall always cherish his memory, and
regard your Highness and the virtuous Hippolita as my parents.”
“Curse on Hippolita!” cried Manfred. “Forget her from this moment, as I
do. In short, Lady, you have missed a husband undeserving of your
charms: they shall now be better disposed of. Instead of a sickly boy,
you shall have a husband in the prime of his age, who will know how to
value your beauties, and who may expect a numerous offspring.”
“Alas, my Lord!” said Isabella, “my mind is too sadly engrossed by the
recent catastrophe in your family to think of another marriage. If ever
my father returns, and it shall be his pleasure, I shall obey, as I did
when I consented to give my hand to your son: but until his return,
permit me to remain under your hospitable roof, and employ the melancholy
hours in assuaging yours, Hippolita’s, and the fair Matilda’s
affliction.”
“I desired you once before,” said Manfred angrily, “not to name that
woman: from this hour she must be a stranger to you, as she must be to
me. In short, Isabella, since I cannot give you my son, I offer you
myself.”
“Heavens!” cried Isabella, waking from her delusion, “what do I hear? You! my Lord! You! My father-in-law! the father of Conrad! the husband
of the virtuous and tender Hippolita!”
“I tell you,” said Manfred imperiously, “Hippolita is no longer my wife;
I divorce her from this hour. Too long has she cursed me by her
unfruitfulness. My fate depends on having sons, and this night I trust
will give a new date to my hopes.”
At those words he seized the cold hand of Isabella, who was half dead
with fright and horror. She shrieked, and started from him, Manfred rose
to pursue her, when the moon, which was now up, and gleamed in at the
opposite casement, presented to his sight the plumes of the fatal helmet,
which rose to the height of the windows, waving backwards and forwards in
a tempestuous manner, and accompanied with a hollow and rustling sound. Isabella, who gathered courage from her situation, and who dreaded
nothing so much as Manfred’s pursuit of his declaration, cried—
“Look, my Lord! see, Heaven itself declares against your impious
intentions!”
“Heaven nor Hell shall impede my designs,” said Manfred, advancing again
to seize the Princess. At that instant the portrait of his grandfather, which hung over the
bench where they had been sitting, uttered a deep sigh, and heaved its
breast. Isabella, whose back was turned to the picture, saw not the motion, nor
knew whence the sound came, but started, and said—
“Hark, my Lord! What sound was that?” and at the same time made towards
the door. Manfred, distracted between the flight of Isabella, who had now reached
the stairs, and yet unable to keep his eyes from the picture, which began
to move, had, however, advanced some steps after her, still looking
backwards on the portrait, when he saw it quit its panel, and descend on
the floor with a grave and melancholy air. “Do I dream?” cried Manfred, returning; “or are the devils themselves in
league against me? Speak, infernal spectre! Or, if thou art my
grandsire, why dost thou too conspire against thy wretched descendant,
who too dearly pays for—” Ere he could finish the sentence, the vision
sighed again, and made a sign to Manfred to follow him. “Lead on!” cried Manfred; “I will follow thee to the gulf of perdition.”
The spectre marched sedately, but dejected, to the end of the gallery,
and turned into a chamber on the right hand. Manfred accompanied him at
a little distance, full of anxiety and horror, but resolved. As he would
have entered the chamber, the door was clapped to with violence by an
invisible hand. The Prince, collecting courage from this delay, would
have forcibly burst open the door with his foot, but found that it
resisted his utmost efforts. “Since Hell will not satisfy my curiosity,” said Manfred, “I will use the
human means in my power for preserving my race; Isabella shall not escape
me.”
The lady, whose resolution had given way to terror the moment she had
quitted Manfred, continued her flight to the bottom of the principal
staircase. There she stopped, not knowing whither to direct her steps,
nor how to escape from the impetuosity of the Prince. The gates of the
castle, she knew, were locked, and guards placed in the court. Should
she, as her heart prompted her, go and prepare Hippolita for the cruel
destiny that awaited her, she did not doubt but Manfred would seek her
there, and that his violence would incite him to double the injury he
meditated, without leaving room for them to avoid the impetuosity of his
passions. Delay might give him time to reflect on the horrid measures he
had conceived, or produce some circumstance in her favour, if she
could—for that night, at least—avoid his odious purpose. Yet where
conceal herself? How avoid the pursuit he would infallibly make
throughout the castle? As these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, she recollected a
subterraneous passage which led from the vaults of the castle to the
church of St. Nicholas. Could she reach the altar before she was
overtaken, she knew even Manfred’s violence would not dare to profane the
sacredness of the place; and she determined, if no other means of
deliverance offered, to shut herself up for ever among the holy virgins
whose convent was contiguous to the cathedral. In this resolution, she
seized a lamp that burned at the foot of the staircase, and hurried
towards the secret passage. The lower part of the castle was hollowed into several intricate
cloisters; and it was not easy for one under so much anxiety to find the
door that opened into the cavern. An awful silence reigned throughout
those subterraneous regions, except now and then some blasts of wind that
shook the doors she had passed, and which, grating on the rusty hinges,
were re-echoed through that long labyrinth of darkness. Every murmur
struck her with new terror; yet more she dreaded to hear the wrathful
voice of Manfred urging his domestics to pursue her. She trod as softly as impatience would give her leave, yet frequently
stopped and listened to hear if she was followed. In one of those
moments she thought she heard a sigh. She shuddered, and recoiled a few
paces. In a moment she thought she heard the step of some person. Her
blood curdled; she concluded it was Manfred. Every suggestion that
horror could inspire rushed into her mind. She condemned her rash
flight, which had thus exposed her to his rage in a place where her cries
were not likely to draw anybody to her assistance. Yet the sound seemed
not to come from behind. If Manfred knew where she was, he must have
followed her. She was still in one of the cloisters, and the steps she
had heard were too distinct to proceed from the way she had come. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
Cheered with this reflection, and hoping to find a friend in whoever was
not the Prince, she was going to advance, when a door that stood ajar, at
some distance to the left, was opened gently: but ere her lamp, which she
held up, could discover who opened it, the person retreated precipitately
on seeing the light. Isabella, whom every incident was sufficient to dismay, hesitated whether
she should proceed. Her dread of Manfred soon outweighed every other
terror. The very circumstance of the person avoiding her gave her a sort
of courage. It could only be, she thought, some domestic belonging to
the castle. Her gentleness had never raised her an enemy, and conscious
innocence made her hope that, unless sent by the Prince’s order to seek
her, his servants would rather assist than prevent her flight. Fortifying herself with these reflections, and believing by what she
could observe that she was near the mouth of the subterraneous cavern,
she approached the door that had been opened; but a sudden gust of wind
that met her at the door extinguished her lamp, and left her in total
darkness. Words cannot paint the horror of the Princess’s situation. Alone in so
dismal a place, her mind imprinted with all the terrible events of the
day, hopeless of escaping, expecting every moment the arrival of Manfred,
and far from tranquil on knowing she was within reach of somebody, she
knew not whom, who for some cause seemed concealed thereabouts; all these
thoughts crowded on her distracted mind, and she was ready to sink under
her apprehensions. She addressed herself to every saint in heaven, and
inwardly implored their assistance. For a considerable time she remained
in an agony of despair. At last, as softly as was possible, she felt for the door, and having
found it, entered trembling into the vault from whence she had heard the
sigh and steps. It gave her a kind of momentary joy to perceive an
imperfect ray of clouded moonshine gleam from the roof of the vault,
which seemed to be fallen in, and from whence hung a fragment of earth or
building, she could not distinguish which, that appeared to have been
crushed inwards. She advanced eagerly towards this chasm, when she
discerned a human form standing close against the wall. She shrieked, believing it the ghost of her betrothed Conrad. The
figure, advancing, said, in a submissive voice—
“Be not alarmed, Lady; I will not injure you.”
Isabella, a little encouraged by the words and tone of voice of the
stranger, and recollecting that this must be the person who had opened
the door, recovered her spirits enough to reply—
“Sir, whoever you are, take pity on a wretched Princess, standing on the
brink of destruction. Assist me to escape from this fatal castle, or in
a few moments I may be made miserable for ever.”
“Alas!” said the stranger, “what can I do to assist you? I will die in
your defence; but I am unacquainted with the castle, and want—”
“Oh!” said Isabella, hastily interrupting him; “help me but to find a
trap-door that must be hereabout, and it is the greatest service you can
do me, for I have not a minute to lose.”
Saying these words, she felt about on the pavement, and directed the
stranger to search likewise, for a smooth piece of brass enclosed in
one of the stones. “That,” said she, “is the lock, which opens with a spring, of which I
know the secret. If we can find that, I may escape—if not, alas! courteous stranger, I fear I shall have involved you in my misfortunes:
Manfred will suspect you for the accomplice of my flight, and you will
fall a victim to his resentment.”
“I value not my life,” said the stranger, “and it will be some comfort to
lose it in trying to deliver you from his tyranny.”
“Generous youth,” said Isabella, “how shall I ever requite—”
As she uttered those words, a ray of moonshine, streaming through a
cranny of the ruin above, shone directly on the lock they sought. “Oh! transport!” said Isabella; “here is the trap-door!” and, taking out
the key, she touched the spring, which, starting aside, discovered an
iron ring. “Lift up the door,” said the Princess. The stranger obeyed, and beneath appeared some stone steps descending
into a vault totally dark. “We must go down here,” said Isabella. “Follow me; dark and dismal as it
is, we cannot miss our way; it leads directly to the church of St.
Nicholas. But, perhaps,” added the Princess modestly, “you have no
reason to leave the castle, nor have I farther occasion for your service;
in a few minutes I shall be safe from Manfred’s rage—only let me know to
whom I am so much obliged.”
“I will never quit you,” said the stranger eagerly, “until I have placed
you in safety—nor think me, Princess, more generous than I am; though you
are my principal care—”
The stranger was interrupted by a sudden noise of voices that seemed
approaching, and they soon distinguished these words—
“Talk not to me of necromancers; I tell you she must be in the castle; I
will find her in spite of enchantment.”
“Oh, heavens!” cried Isabella; “it is the voice of Manfred! Make haste,
or we are ruined! and shut the trap-door after you.”
Saying this, she descended the steps precipitately; and as the stranger
hastened to follow her, he let the door slip out of his hands: it fell,
and the spring closed over it. He tried in vain to open it, not having
observed Isabella’s method of touching the spring; nor had he many
moments to make an essay. The noise of the falling door had been heard
by Manfred, who, directed by the sound, hastened thither, attended by his
servants with torches. “It must be Isabella,” cried Manfred, before he entered the vault. “She
is escaping by the subterraneous passage, but she cannot have got far.”
What was the astonishment of the Prince when, instead of Isabella, the
light of the torches discovered to him the young peasant whom he thought
confined under the fatal helmet! “Traitor!” said Manfred; “how camest thou here? I thought thee in
durance above in the court.”
“I am no traitor,” replied the young man boldly, “nor am I answerable for
your thoughts.”
“Presumptuous villain!” cried Manfred; “dost thou provoke my wrath? Tell
me, how hast thou escaped from above? Thou hast corrupted thy guards,
and their lives shall answer it.”
“My poverty,” said the peasant calmly, “will disculpate them: though the
ministers of a tyrant’s wrath, to thee they are faithful, and but too
willing to execute the orders which you unjustly imposed upon them.”
“Art thou so hardy as to dare my vengeance?” said the Prince; “but
tortures shall force the truth from thee. Tell me; I will know thy
accomplices.”
“There was my accomplice!” said the youth, smiling, and pointing to the
roof. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
Manfred ordered the torches to be held up, and perceived that one of the
cheeks of the enchanted casque had forced its way through the pavement of
the court, as his servants had let it fall over the peasant, and had
broken through into the vault, leaving a gap, through which the peasant
had pressed himself some minutes before he was found by Isabella. “Was that the way by which thou didst descend?” said Manfred. “It was,” said the youth. “But what noise was that,” said Manfred, “which I heard as I entered the
cloister?”
“A door clapped,” said the peasant; “I heard it as well as you.”
“What door?” said Manfred hastily. “I am not acquainted with your castle,” said the peasant; “this is the
first time I ever entered it, and this vault the only part of it within
which I ever was.”
“But I tell thee,” said Manfred (wishing to find out if the youth had
discovered the trap-door), “it was this way I heard the noise. My
servants heard it too.”
“My Lord,” interrupted one of them officiously, “to be sure it was the
trap-door, and he was going to make his escape.”
“Peace, blockhead!” said the Prince angrily; “if he was going to escape,
how should he come on this side? I will know from his own mouth what
noise it was I heard. Tell me truly; thy life depends on thy veracity.”
“My veracity is dearer to me than my life,” said the peasant; “nor would
I purchase the one by forfeiting the other.”
“Indeed, young philosopher!” said Manfred contemptuously; “tell me, then,
what was the noise I heard?”
“Ask me what I can answer,” said he, “and put me to death instantly if I
tell you a lie.”
Manfred, growing impatient at the steady valour and indifference of the
youth, cried—
“Well, then, thou man of truth, answer! Was it the fall of the trap-door
that I heard?”
“It was,” said the youth. “It was!” said the Prince; “and how didst thou come to know there was a
trap-door here?”
“I saw the plate of brass by a gleam of moonshine,” replied he. “But what told thee it was a lock?” said Manfred. “How didst thou
discover the secret of opening it?”
“Providence, that delivered me from the helmet, was able to direct me to
the spring of a lock,” said he. “Providence should have gone a little farther, and have placed thee out
of the reach of my resentment,” said Manfred. “When Providence had
taught thee to open the lock, it abandoned thee for a fool, who did not
know how to make use of its favours. Why didst thou not pursue the path
pointed out for thy escape? Why didst thou shut the trap-door before
thou hadst descended the steps?”
“I might ask you, my Lord,” said the peasant, “how I, totally
unacquainted with your castle, was to know that those steps led to any
outlet? but I scorn to evade your questions. Wherever those steps lead
to, perhaps I should have explored the way—I could not be in a worse
situation than I was. But the truth is, I let the trap-door fall: your
immediate arrival followed. I had given the alarm—what imported it to me
whether I was seized a minute sooner or a minute later?”
“Thou art a resolute villain for thy years,” said Manfred; “yet on
reflection I suspect thou dost but trifle with me. Thou hast not yet
told me how thou didst open the lock.”
“That I will show you, my Lord,” said the peasant; and, taking up a
fragment of stone that had fallen from above, he laid himself on the
trap-door, and began to beat on the piece of brass that covered it,
meaning to gain time for the escape of the Princess. This presence of
mind, joined to the frankness of the youth, staggered Manfred. He even
felt a disposition towards pardoning one who had been guilty of no crime. Manfred was not one of those savage tyrants who wanton in cruelty
unprovoked. The circumstances of his fortune had given an asperity to
his temper, which was naturally humane; and his virtues were always ready
to operate, when his passions did not obscure his reason. While the Prince was in this suspense, a confused noise of voices echoed
through the distant vaults. As the sound approached, he distinguished
the clamours of some of his domestics, whom he had dispersed through the
castle in search of Isabella, calling out—
“Where is my Lord? where is the Prince?”
“Here I am,” said Manfred, as they came nearer; “have you found the
Princess?”
The first that arrived, replied, “Oh, my Lord! I am glad we have found
you.”
“Found me!” said Manfred; “have you found the Princess?”
“We thought we had, my Lord,” said the fellow, looking terrified, “but—”
“But, what?” cried the Prince; “has she escaped?”
“Jaquez and I, my Lord—”
“Yes, I and Diego,” interrupted the second, who came up in still greater
consternation. “Speak one of you at a time,” said Manfred; “I ask you, where is the
Princess?”
“We do not know,” said they both together; “but we are frightened out of
our wits.”
“So I think, blockheads,” said Manfred; “what is it has scared you thus?”
“Oh! my Lord,” said Jaquez, “Diego has seen such a sight! your Highness
would not believe our eyes.”
“What new absurdity is this?” cried Manfred; “give me a direct answer,
or, by Heaven—”
“Why, my Lord, if it please your Highness to hear me,” said the poor
fellow, “Diego and I—”
“Yes, I and Jaquez—” cried his comrade. “Did not I forbid you to speak both at a time?” said the Prince: “you,
Jaquez, answer; for the other fool seems more distracted than thou art;
what is the matter?”
“My gracious Lord,” said Jaquez, “if it please your Highness to hear me;
Diego and I, according to your Highness’s orders, went to search for the
young Lady; but being comprehensive that we might meet the ghost of my
young Lord, your Highness’s son, God rest his soul, as he has not
received Christian burial—”
“Sot!” cried Manfred in a rage; “is it only a ghost, then, that thou hast
seen?”
“Oh! worse! worse! my Lord,” cried Diego: “I had rather have seen ten
whole ghosts.”
“Grant me patience!” said Manfred; “these blockheads distract me. Out of
my sight, Diego! and thou, Jaquez, tell me in one word, art thou sober? art thou raving? thou wast wont to have some sense: has the other sot
frightened himself and thee too? Speak; what is it he fancies he has
seen?”
“Why, my Lord,” replied Jaquez, trembling, “I was going to tell your
Highness, that since the calamitous misfortune of my young Lord, God rest
his precious soul! not one of us your Highness’s faithful servants—indeed
we are, my Lord, though poor men—I say, not one of us has dared to set a
foot about the castle, but two together: so Diego and I, thinking that my
young Lady might be in the great gallery, went up there to look for her,
and tell her your Highness wanted something to impart to her.”
“O blundering fools!” cried Manfred; “and in the meantime, she has made
her escape, because you were afraid of goblins!—Why, thou knave! she left
me in the gallery; I came from thence myself.”
“For all that, she may be there still for aught I know,” said Jaquez;
“but the devil shall have me before I seek her there again—poor Diego! | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
I
do not believe he will ever recover it.”
“Recover what?” said Manfred; “am I never to learn what it is has
terrified these rascals?—but I lose my time; follow me, slave; I will see
if she is in the gallery.”
“For Heaven’s sake, my dear, good Lord,” cried Jaquez, “do not go to the
gallery. Satan himself I believe is in the chamber next to the gallery.”
Manfred, who hitherto had treated the terror of his servants as an idle
panic, was struck at this new circumstance. He recollected the
apparition of the portrait, and the sudden closing of the door at the end
of the gallery. His voice faltered, and he asked with disorder—
“What is in the great chamber?”
“My Lord,” said Jaquez, “when Diego and I came into the gallery, he went
first, for he said he had more courage than I. So when we came into the
gallery we found nobody. We looked under every bench and stool; and
still we found nobody.”
“Were all the pictures in their places?” said Manfred. “Yes, my Lord,” answered Jaquez; “but we did not think of looking behind
them.”
“Well, well!” said Manfred; “proceed.”
“When we came to the door of the great chamber,” continued Jaquez, “we
found it shut.”
“And could not you open it?” said Manfred. “Oh! yes, my Lord; would to Heaven we had not!” replied he—“nay, it was
not I neither; it was Diego: he was grown foolhardy, and would go on,
though I advised him not—if ever I open a door that is shut again—”
“Trifle not,” said Manfred, shuddering, “but tell me what you saw in the
great chamber on opening the door.”
“I, my Lord!” said Jaquez; “I was behind Diego; but I heard the noise.”
“Jaquez,” said Manfred, in a solemn tone of voice; “tell me, I adjure
thee by the souls of my ancestors, what was it thou sawest? what was it
thou heardest?”
“It was Diego saw it, my Lord, it was not I,” replied Jaquez; “I only
heard the noise. Diego had no sooner opened the door, than he cried out,
and ran back. I ran back too, and said, ‘Is it the ghost?’ ‘The ghost! no, no,’ said Diego, and his hair stood on end—‘it is a giant, I believe;
he is all clad in armour, for I saw his foot and part of his leg, and
they are as large as the helmet below in the court.’ As he said these
words, my Lord, we heard a violent motion and the rattling of armour, as
if the giant was rising, for Diego has told me since that he believes the
giant was lying down, for the foot and leg were stretched at length on
the floor. Before we could get to the end of the gallery, we heard the
door of the great chamber clap behind us, but we did not dare turn back
to see if the giant was following us—yet, now I think on it, we must have
heard him if he had pursued us—but for Heaven’s sake, good my Lord, send
for the chaplain, and have the castle exorcised, for, for certain, it is
enchanted.”
“Ay, pray do, my Lord,” cried all the servants at once, “or we must leave
your Highness’s service.”
“Peace, dotards!” said Manfred, “and follow me; I will know what all this
means.”
“We! my Lord!” cried they with one voice; “we would not go up to the
gallery for your Highness’s revenue.” The young peasant, who had stood
silent, now spoke. “Will your Highness,” said he, “permit me to try this adventure? My life
is of consequence to nobody; I fear no bad angel, and have offended no
good one.”
“Your behaviour is above your seeming,” said Manfred, viewing him with
surprise and admiration—“hereafter I will reward your bravery—but now,”
continued he with a sigh, “I am so circumstanced, that I dare trust no
eyes but my own. However, I give you leave to accompany me.”
Manfred, when he first followed Isabella from the gallery, had gone
directly to the apartment of his wife, concluding the Princess had
retired thither. Hippolita, who knew his step, rose with anxious
fondness to meet her Lord, whom she had not seen since the death of their
son. She would have flown in a transport mixed of joy and grief to his
bosom, but he pushed her rudely off, and said—
“Where is Isabella?”
“Isabella! my Lord!” said the astonished Hippolita. “Yes, Isabella,” cried Manfred imperiously; “I want Isabella.”
“My Lord,” replied Matilda, who perceived how much his behaviour had
shocked her mother, “she has not been with us since your Highness
summoned her to your apartment.”
“Tell me where she is,” said the Prince; “I do not want to know where she
has been.”
“My good Lord,” says Hippolita, “your daughter tells you the truth:
Isabella left us by your command, and has not returned since;—but, my
good Lord, compose yourself: retire to your rest: this dismal day has
disordered you. Isabella shall wait your orders in the morning.”
“What, then, you know where she is!” cried Manfred. “Tell me directly,
for I will not lose an instant—and you, woman,” speaking to his wife,
“order your chaplain to attend me forthwith.”
“Isabella,” said Hippolita calmly, “is retired, I suppose, to her
chamber: she is not accustomed to watch at this late hour. Gracious my
Lord,” continued she, “let me know what has disturbed you. Has Isabella
offended you?”
“Trouble me not with questions,” said Manfred, “but tell me where she
is.”
“Matilda shall call her,” said the Princess. “Sit down, my Lord, and
resume your wonted fortitude.”
“What, art thou jealous of Isabella?” replied he, “that you wish to be
present at our interview!”
“Good heavens! my Lord,” said Hippolita, “what is it your Highness
means?”
“Thou wilt know ere many minutes are passed,” said the cruel Prince. “Send your chaplain to me, and wait my pleasure here.”
At these words he flung out of the room in search of Isabella, leaving
the amazed ladies thunderstruck with his words and frantic deportment,
and lost in vain conjectures on what he was meditating. Manfred was now returning from the vault, attended by the peasant and a
few of his servants whom he had obliged to accompany him. He ascended
the staircase without stopping till he arrived at the gallery, at the
door of which he met Hippolita and her chaplain. When Diego had been
dismissed by Manfred, he had gone directly to the Princess’s apartment
with the alarm of what he had seen. That excellent Lady, who no more
than Manfred doubted of the reality of the vision, yet affected to treat
it as a delirium of the servant. Willing, however, to save her Lord from
any additional shock, and prepared by a series of griefs not to tremble
at any accession to it, she determined to make herself the first
sacrifice, if fate had marked the present hour for their destruction. Dismissing the reluctant Matilda to her rest, who in vain sued for leave
to accompany her mother, and attended only by her chaplain, Hippolita had
visited the gallery and great chamber; and now with more serenity of soul
than she had felt for many hours, she met her Lord, and assured him that
the vision of the gigantic leg and foot was all a fable; and no doubt an
impression made by fear, and the dark and dismal hour of the night, on
the minds of his servants. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
She and the chaplain had examined the
chamber, and found everything in the usual order. Manfred, though persuaded, like his wife, that the vision had been no
work of fancy, recovered a little from the tempest of mind into which so
many strange events had thrown him. Ashamed, too, of his inhuman
treatment of a Princess who returned every injury with new marks of
tenderness and duty, he felt returning love forcing itself into his eyes;
but not less ashamed of feeling remorse towards one against whom he was
inwardly meditating a yet more bitter outrage, he curbed the yearnings of
his heart, and did not dare to lean even towards pity. The next
transition of his soul was to exquisite villainy. Presuming on the unshaken submission of Hippolita, he flattered himself
that she would not only acquiesce with patience to a divorce, but would
obey, if it was his pleasure, in endeavouring to persuade Isabella to
give him her hand—but ere he could indulge his horrid hope, he reflected
that Isabella was not to be found. Coming to himself, he gave orders
that every avenue to the castle should be strictly guarded, and charged
his domestics on pain of their lives to suffer nobody to pass out. The
young peasant, to whom he spoke favourably, he ordered to remain in a
small chamber on the stairs, in which there was a pallet-bed, and the key
of which he took away himself, telling the youth he would talk with him
in the morning. Then dismissing his attendants, and bestowing a sullen
kind of half-nod on Hippolita, he retired to his own chamber. CHAPTER II. Matilda, who by Hippolita’s order had retired to her apartment, was
ill-disposed to take any rest. The shocking fate of her brother had
deeply affected her. She was surprised at not seeing Isabella; but the
strange words which had fallen from her father, and his obscure menace to
the Princess his wife, accompanied by the most furious behaviour, had
filled her gentle mind with terror and alarm. She waited anxiously for
the return of Bianca, a young damsel that attended her, whom she had sent
to learn what was become of Isabella. Bianca soon appeared, and informed
her mistress of what she had gathered from the servants, that Isabella
was nowhere to be found. She related the adventure of the young peasant
who had been discovered in the vault, though with many simple additions
from the incoherent accounts of the domestics; and she dwelt principally
on the gigantic leg and foot which had been seen in the gallery-chamber. This last circumstance had terrified Bianca so much, that she was
rejoiced when Matilda told her that she would not go to rest, but would
watch till the Princess should rise. The young Princess wearied herself in conjectures on the flight of
Isabella, and on the threats of Manfred to her mother. “But what
business could he have so urgent with the chaplain?” said Matilda, “Does
he intend to have my brother’s body interred privately in the chapel?”
“Oh, Madam!” said Bianca, “now I guess. As you are become his heiress,
he is impatient to have you married: he has always been raving for more
sons; I warrant he is now impatient for grandsons. As sure as I live,
Madam, I shall see you a bride at last.—Good madam, you won’t cast off
your faithful Bianca: you won’t put Donna Rosara over me now you are a
great Princess.”
“My poor Bianca,” said Matilda, “how fast your thoughts amble! I a great
princess! What hast thou seen in Manfred’s behaviour since my brother’s
death that bespeaks any increase of tenderness to me? No, Bianca; his
heart was ever a stranger to me—but he is my father, and I must not
complain. Nay, if Heaven shuts my father’s heart against me, it overpays
my little merit in the tenderness of my mother—O that dear mother! yes,
Bianca, ’tis there I feel the rugged temper of Manfred. I can support
his harshness to me with patience; but it wounds my soul when I am
witness to his causeless severity towards her.”
“Oh! Madam,” said Bianca, “all men use their wives so, when they are
weary of them.”
“And yet you congratulated me but now,” said Matilda, “when you fancied
my father intended to dispose of me!”
“I would have you a great Lady,” replied Bianca, “come what will. I do
not wish to see you moped in a convent, as you would be if you had your
will, and if my Lady, your mother, who knows that a bad husband is better
than no husband at all, did not hinder you.—Bless me! what noise is that! St. Nicholas forgive me! I was but in jest.”
“It is the wind,” said Matilda, “whistling through the battlements in the
tower above: you have heard it a thousand times.”
“Nay,” said Bianca, “there was no harm neither in what I said: it is no
sin to talk of matrimony—and so, Madam, as I was saying, if my Lord
Manfred should offer you a handsome young Prince for a bridegroom, you
would drop him a curtsey, and tell him you would rather take the veil?”
“Thank Heaven! I am in no such danger,” said Matilda: “you know how many
proposals for me he has rejected—”
“And you thank him, like a dutiful daughter, do you, Madam? But come,
Madam; suppose, to-morrow morning, he was to send for you to the great
council chamber, and there you should find at his elbow a lovely young
Prince, with large black eyes, a smooth white forehead, and manly curling
locks like jet; in short, Madam, a young hero resembling the picture of
the good Alfonso in the gallery, which you sit and gaze at for hours
together—”
“Do not speak lightly of that picture,” interrupted Matilda sighing; “I
know the adoration with which I look at that picture is uncommon—but I am
not in love with a coloured panel. The character of that virtuous
Prince, the veneration with which my mother has inspired me for his
memory, the orisons which, I know not why, she has enjoined me to pour
forth at his tomb, all have concurred to persuade me that somehow or
other my destiny is linked with something relating to him.”
“Lord, Madam! how should that be?” said Bianca; “I have always heard that
your family was in no way related to his: and I am sure I cannot conceive
why my Lady, the Princess, sends you in a cold morning or a damp evening
to pray at his tomb: he is no saint by the almanack. If you must pray,
why does she not bid you address yourself to our great St. Nicholas? I
am sure he is the saint I pray to for a husband.”
“Perhaps my mind would be less affected,” said Matilda, “if my mother
would explain her reasons to me: but it is the mystery she observes, that
inspires me with this—I know not what to call it. As she never acts from
caprice, I am sure there is some fatal secret at bottom—nay, I know there
is: in her agony of grief for my brother’s death she dropped some words
that intimated as much.”
“Oh! dear Madam,” cried Bianca, “what were they?”
“No,” said Matilda, “if a parent lets fall a word, and wishes it
recalled, it is not for a child to utter it.”
“What! | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
was she sorry for what she had said?” asked Bianca; “I am sure,
Madam, you may trust me—”
“With my own little secrets when I have any, I may,” said Matilda; “but
never with my mother’s: a child ought to have no ears or eyes but as a
parent directs.”
“Well! to be sure, Madam, you were born to be a saint,” said Bianca, “and
there is no resisting one’s vocation: you will end in a convent at last. But there is my Lady Isabella would not be so reserved to me: she will
let me talk to her of young men: and when a handsome cavalier has come to
the castle, she has owned to me that she wished your brother Conrad
resembled him.”
“Bianca,” said the Princess, “I do not allow you to mention my friend
disrespectfully. Isabella is of a cheerful disposition, but her soul is
pure as virtue itself. She knows your idle babbling humour, and perhaps
has now and then encouraged it, to divert melancholy, and enliven the
solitude in which my father keeps us—”
“Blessed Mary!” said Bianca, starting, “there it is again! Dear Madam,
do you hear nothing? this castle is certainly haunted!”
“Peace!” said Matilda, “and listen! I did think I heard a voice—but it
must be fancy: your terrors, I suppose, have infected me.”
“Indeed! indeed! Madam,” said Bianca, half-weeping with agony, “I am
sure I heard a voice.”
“Does anybody lie in the chamber beneath?” said the Princess. “Nobody has dared to lie there,” answered Bianca, “since the great
astrologer, that was your brother’s tutor, drowned himself. For certain,
Madam, his ghost and the young Prince’s are now met in the chamber
below—for Heaven’s sake let us fly to your mother’s apartment!”
“I charge you not to stir,” said Matilda. “If they are spirits in pain,
we may ease their sufferings by questioning them. They can mean no hurt
to us, for we have not injured them—and if they should, shall we be more
safe in one chamber than in another? Reach me my beads; we will say a
prayer, and then speak to them.”
“Oh! dear Lady, I would not speak to a ghost for the world!” cried
Bianca. As she said those words they heard the casement of the little
chamber below Matilda’s open. They listened attentively, and in a few
minutes thought they heard a person sing, but could not distinguish the
words. “This can be no evil spirit,” said the Princess, in a low voice; “it is
undoubtedly one of the family—open the window, and we shall know the
voice.”
“I dare not, indeed, Madam,” said Bianca. “Thou art a very fool,” said Matilda, opening the window gently herself. The noise the Princess made was, however, heard by the person beneath,
who stopped; and they concluded had heard the casement open. “Is anybody below?” said the Princess; “if there is, speak.”
“Yes,” said an unknown voice. “Who is it?” said Matilda. “A stranger,” replied the voice. “What stranger?” said she; “and how didst thou come there at this unusual
hour, when all the gates of the castle are locked?”
“I am not here willingly,” answered the voice. “But pardon me, Lady, if
I have disturbed your rest; I knew not that I was overheard. Sleep had
forsaken me; I left a restless couch, and came to waste the irksome hours
with gazing on the fair approach of morning, impatient to be dismissed
from this castle.”
“Thy words and accents,” said Matilda, “are of melancholy cast; if thou
art unhappy, I pity thee. If poverty afflicts thee, let me know it; I
will mention thee to the Princess, whose beneficent soul ever melts for
the distressed, and she will relieve thee.”
“I am indeed unhappy,” said the stranger; “and I know not what wealth is. But I do not complain of the lot which Heaven has cast for me; I am young
and healthy, and am not ashamed of owing my support to myself—yet think
me not proud, or that I disdain your generous offers. I will remember
you in my orisons, and will pray for blessings on your gracious self and
your noble mistress—if I sigh, Lady, it is for others, not for myself.”
“Now I have it, Madam,” said Bianca, whispering the Princess; “this is
certainly the young peasant; and, by my conscience, he is in love—Well! this is a charming adventure!—do, Madam, let us sift him. He does not
know you, but takes you for one of my Lady Hippolita’s women.”
“Art thou not ashamed, Bianca!” said the Princess. “What right have we
to pry into the secrets of this young man’s heart? He seems virtuous and
frank, and tells us he is unhappy. Are those circumstances that
authorise us to make a property of him? How are we entitled to his
confidence?”
“Lord, Madam! how little you know of love!” replied Bianca; “why, lovers
have no pleasure equal to talking of their mistress.”
“And would you have _me_ become a peasant’s confidante?” said the
Princess. “Well, then, let me talk to him,” said Bianca; “though I have the honour
of being your Highness’s maid of honour, I was not always so great. Besides, if love levels ranks, it raises them too; I have a respect for
any young man in love.”
“Peace, simpleton!” said the Princess. “Though he said he was unhappy,
it does not follow that he must be in love. Think of all that has
happened to-day, and tell me if there are no misfortunes but what love
causes.—Stranger,” resumed the Princess, “if thy misfortunes have not
been occasioned by thy own fault, and are within the compass of the
Princess Hippolita’s power to redress, I will take upon me to answer that
she will be thy protectress. When thou art dismissed from this castle,
repair to holy father Jerome, at the convent adjoining to the church of
St. Nicholas, and make thy story known to him, as far as thou thinkest
meet. He will not fail to inform the Princess, who is the mother of all
that want her assistance. Farewell; it is not seemly for me to hold
farther converse with a man at this unwonted hour.”
“May the saints guard thee, gracious Lady!” replied the peasant; “but oh! if a poor and worthless stranger might presume to beg a minute’s audience
farther; am I so happy? the casement is not shut; might I venture to
ask—”
“Speak quickly,” said Matilda; “the morning dawns apace: should the
labourers come into the fields and perceive us—What wouldst thou ask?”
“I know not how, I know not if I dare,” said the young stranger,
faltering; “yet the humanity with which you have spoken to me
emboldens—Lady! dare I trust you?”
“Heavens!” said Matilda, “what dost thou mean? With what wouldst thou
trust me? Speak boldly, if thy secret is fit to be entrusted to a
virtuous breast.”
“I would ask,” said the peasant, recollecting himself, “whether what I
have heard from the domestics is true, that the Princess is missing from
the castle?”
“What imports it to thee to know?” replied Matilda. “Thy first words
bespoke a prudent and becoming gravity. Dost thou come hither to pry
into the secrets of Manfred? Adieu. I have been mistaken in thee.”
Saying these words she shut the casement hastily, without giving the
young man time to reply. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
“I had acted more wisely,” said the Princess to Bianca, with some
sharpness, “if I had let thee converse with this peasant; his
inquisitiveness seems of a piece with thy own.”
“It is not fit for me to argue with your Highness,” replied Bianca; “but
perhaps the questions I should have put to him would have been more to
the purpose than those you have been pleased to ask him.”
“Oh! no doubt,” said Matilda; “you are a very discreet personage! May I
know what _you_ would have asked him?”
“A bystander often sees more of the game than those that play,” answered
Bianca. “Does your Highness think, Madam, that this question about my
Lady Isabella was the result of mere curiosity? No, no, Madam, there is
more in it than you great folks are aware of. Lopez told me that all the
servants believe this young fellow contrived my Lady Isabella’s escape;
now, pray, Madam, observe you and I both know that my Lady Isabella never
much fancied the Prince your brother. Well! he is killed just in a
critical minute—I accuse nobody. A helmet falls from the moon—so, my
Lord, your father says; but Lopez and all the servants say that this
young spark is a magician, and stole it from Alfonso’s tomb—”
“Have done with this rhapsody of impertinence,” said Matilda. “Nay, Madam, as you please,” cried Bianca; “yet it is very particular
though, that my Lady Isabella should be missing the very same day, and
that this young sorcerer should be found at the mouth of the trap-door. I accuse nobody; but if my young Lord came honestly by his death—”
“Dare not on thy duty,” said Matilda, “to breathe a suspicion on the
purity of my dear Isabella’s fame.”
“Purity, or not purity,” said Bianca, “gone she is—a stranger is found
that nobody knows; you question him yourself; he tells you he is in love,
or unhappy, it is the same thing—nay, he owned he was unhappy about
others; and is anybody unhappy about another, unless they are in love
with them? and at the very next word, he asks innocently, pour soul! if
my Lady Isabella is missing.”
“To be sure,” said Matilda, “thy observations are not totally without
foundation—Isabella’s flight amazes me. The curiosity of the stranger is
very particular; yet Isabella never concealed a thought from me.”
“So she told you,” said Bianca, “to fish out your secrets; but who knows,
Madam, but this stranger may be some Prince in disguise? Do, Madam, let
me open the window, and ask him a few questions.”
“No,” replied Matilda, “I will ask him myself, if he knows aught of
Isabella; he is not worthy I should converse farther with him.” She was
going to open the casement, when they heard the bell ring at the
postern-gate of the castle, which is on the right hand of the tower,
where Matilda lay. This prevented the Princess from renewing the
conversation with the stranger. After continuing silent for some time, “I am persuaded,” said she to
Bianca, “that whatever be the cause of Isabella’s flight it had no
unworthy motive. If this stranger was accessory to it, she must be
satisfied with his fidelity and worth. I observed, did not you, Bianca? that his words were tinctured with an uncommon infusion of piety. It was
no ruffian’s speech; his phrases were becoming a man of gentle birth.”
“I told you, Madam,” said Bianca, “that I was sure he was some Prince in
disguise.”
“Yet,” said Matilda, “if he was privy to her escape, how will you account
for his not accompanying her in her flight? why expose himself
unnecessarily and rashly to my father’s resentment?”
“As for that, Madam,” replied she, “if he could get from under the
helmet, he will find ways of eluding your father’s anger. I do not doubt
but he has some talisman or other about him.”
“You resolve everything into magic,” said Matilda; “but a man who has any
intercourse with infernal spirits, does not dare to make use of those
tremendous and holy words which he uttered. Didst thou not observe with
what fervour he vowed to remember _me_ to heaven in his prayers? Yes;
Isabella was undoubtedly convinced of his piety.”
“Commend me to the piety of a young fellow and a damsel that consult to
elope!” said Bianca. “No, no, Madam, my Lady Isabella is of another
guess mould than you take her for. She used indeed to sigh and lift up
her eyes in your company, because she knows you are a saint; but when
your back was turned—”
“You wrong her,” said Matilda; “Isabella is no hypocrite; she has a due
sense of devotion, but never affected a call she has not. On the
contrary, she always combated my inclination for the cloister; and though
I own the mystery she has made to me of her flight confounds me; though
it seems inconsistent with the friendship between us; I cannot forget the
disinterested warmth with which she always opposed my taking the veil. She wished to see me married, though my dower would have been a loss to
her and my brother’s children. For her sake I will believe well of this
young peasant.”
“Then you do think there is some liking between them,” said Bianca. While she was speaking, a servant came hastily into the chamber and told
the Princess that the Lady Isabella was found. “Where?” said Matilda. “She has taken sanctuary in St. Nicholas’s church,” replied the servant;
“Father Jerome has brought the news himself; he is below with his
Highness.”
“Where is my mother?” said Matilda. “She is in her own chamber, Madam, and has asked for you.”
Manfred had risen at the first dawn of light, and gone to Hippolita’s
apartment, to inquire if she knew aught of Isabella. While he was
questioning her, word was brought that Jerome demanded to speak with him. Manfred, little suspecting the cause of the Friar’s arrival, and knowing
he was employed by Hippolita in her charities, ordered him to be
admitted, intending to leave them together, while he pursued his search
after Isabella. “Is your business with me or the Princess?” said Manfred. “With both,” replied the holy man. “The Lady Isabella—”
“What of her?” interrupted Manfred, eagerly. “Is at St. Nicholas’s altar,” replied Jerome. “That is no business of Hippolita,” said Manfred with confusion; “let us
retire to my chamber, Father, and inform me how she came thither.”
“No, my Lord,” replied the good man, with an air of firmness and
authority, that daunted even the resolute Manfred, who could not help
revering the saint-like virtues of Jerome; “my commission is to both, and
with your Highness’s good-liking, in the presence of both I shall deliver
it; but first, my Lord, I must interrogate the Princess, whether she is
acquainted with the cause of the Lady Isabella’s retirement from your
castle.”
“No, on my soul,” said Hippolita; “does Isabella charge me with being
privy to it?”
“Father,” interrupted Manfred, “I pay due reverence to your holy
profession; but I am sovereign here, and will allow no meddling priest to
interfere in the affairs of my domestic. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
If you have aught to say attend
me to my chamber; I do not use to let my wife be acquainted with the
secret affairs of my state; they are not within a woman’s province.”
“My Lord,” said the holy man, “I am no intruder into the secrets of
families. My office is to promote peace, to heal divisions, to preach
repentance, and teach mankind to curb their headstrong passions. I
forgive your Highness’s uncharitable apostrophe; I know my duty, and am
the minister of a mightier prince than Manfred. Hearken to him who
speaks through my organs.”
Manfred trembled with rage and shame. Hippolita’s countenance declared
her astonishment and impatience to know where this would end. Her
silence more strongly spoke her observance of Manfred. “The Lady Isabella,” resumed Jerome, “commends herself to both your
Highnesses; she thanks both for the kindness with which she has been
treated in your castle: she deplores the loss of your son, and her own
misfortune in not becoming the daughter of such wise and noble Princes,
whom she shall always respect as Parents; she prays for uninterrupted
union and felicity between you” [Manfred’s colour changed]: “but as it is
no longer possible for her to be allied to you, she entreats your consent
to remain in sanctuary, till she can learn news of her father, or, by the
certainty of his death, be at liberty, with the approbation of her
guardians, to dispose of herself in suitable marriage.”
“I shall give no such consent,” said the Prince, “but insist on her
return to the castle without delay: I am answerable for her person to her
guardians, and will not brook her being in any hands but my own.”
“Your Highness will recollect whether that can any longer be proper,”
replied the Friar. “I want no monitor,” said Manfred, colouring; “Isabella’s conduct leaves
room for strange suspicions—and that young villain, who was at least the
accomplice of her flight, if not the cause of it—”
“The cause!” interrupted Jerome; “was a _young_ man the cause?”
“This is not to be borne!” cried Manfred. “Am I to be bearded in my own
palace by an insolent Monk? Thou art privy, I guess, to their amours.”
“I would pray to heaven to clear up your uncharitable surmises,” said
Jerome, “if your Highness were not satisfied in your conscience how
unjustly you accuse me. I do pray to heaven to pardon that
uncharitableness: and I implore your Highness to leave the Princess at
peace in that holy place, where she is not liable to be disturbed by such
vain and worldly fantasies as discourses of love from any man.”
“Cant not to me,” said Manfred, “but return and bring the Princess to her
duty.”
“It is my duty to prevent her return hither,” said Jerome. “She is where
orphans and virgins are safest from the snares and wiles of this world;
and nothing but a parent’s authority shall take her thence.”
“I am her parent,” cried Manfred, “and demand her.”
“She wished to have you for her parent,” said the Friar; “but Heaven that
forbad that connection has for ever dissolved all ties betwixt you: and I
announce to your Highness—”
“Stop! audacious man,” said Manfred, “and dread my displeasure.”
“Holy Father,” said Hippolita, “it is your office to be no respecter of
persons: you must speak as your duty prescribes: but it is my duty to
hear nothing that it pleases not my Lord I should hear. Attend the
Prince to his chamber. I will retire to my oratory, and pray to the
blessed Virgin to inspire you with her holy counsels, and to restore the
heart of my gracious Lord to its wonted peace and gentleness.”
“Excellent woman!” said the Friar. “My Lord, I attend your pleasure.”
Manfred, accompanied by the Friar, passed to his own apartment, where
shutting the door, “I perceive, Father,” said he, “that Isabella has
acquainted you with my purpose. Now hear my resolve, and obey. Reasons
of state, most urgent reasons, my own and the safety of my people, demand
that I should have a son. It is in vain to expect an heir from
Hippolita. I have made choice of Isabella. You must bring her back; and
you must do more. I know the influence you have with Hippolita: her
conscience is in your hands. She is, I allow, a faultless woman: her
soul is set on heaven, and scorns the little grandeur of this world: you
can withdraw her from it entirely. Persuade her to consent to the
dissolution of our marriage, and to retire into a monastery—she shall
endow one if she will; and she shall have the means of being as liberal
to your order as she or you can wish. Thus you will divert the
calamities that are hanging over our heads, and have the merit of saving
the principality of Otranto from destruction. You are a prudent man, and
though the warmth of my temper betrayed me into some unbecoming
expressions, I honour your virtue, and wish to be indebted to you for the
repose of my life and the preservation of my family.”
“The will of heaven be done!” said the Friar. “I am but its worthless
instrument. It makes use of my tongue to tell thee, Prince, of thy
unwarrantable designs. The injuries of the virtuous Hippolita have
mounted to the throne of pity. By me thou art reprimanded for thy
adulterous intention of repudiating her: by me thou art warned not to
pursue the incestuous design on thy contracted daughter. Heaven that
delivered her from thy fury, when the judgments so recently fallen on thy
house ought to have inspired thee with other thoughts, will continue to
watch over her. Even I, a poor and despised Friar, am able to protect
her from thy violence—I, sinner as I am, and uncharitably reviled by your
Highness as an accomplice of I know not what amours, scorn the
allurements with which it has pleased thee to tempt mine honesty. I love
my order; I honour devout souls; I respect the piety of thy Princess—but
I will not betray the confidence she reposes in me, nor serve even the
cause of religion by foul and sinful compliances—but forsooth! the
welfare of the state depends on your Highness having a son! Heaven mocks
the short-sighted views of man. But yester-morn, whose house was so
great, so flourishing as Manfred’s?—where is young Conrad now?—My Lord, I
respect your tears—but I mean not to check them—let them flow, Prince! They will weigh more with heaven toward the welfare of thy subjects, than
a marriage, which, founded on lust or policy, could never prosper. The
sceptre, which passed from the race of Alfonso to thine, cannot be
preserved by a match which the church will never allow. If it is the
will of the Most High that Manfred’s name must perish, resign yourself,
my Lord, to its decrees; and thus deserve a crown that can never pass
away. Come, my Lord; I like this sorrow—let us return to the Princess:
she is not apprised of your cruel intentions; nor did I mean more than to
alarm you. You saw with what gentle patience, with what efforts of love,
she heard, she rejected hearing, the extent of your guilt. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
I know she
longs to fold you in her arms, and assure you of her unalterable
affection.”
“Father,” said the Prince, “you mistake my compunction: true, I honour
Hippolita’s virtues; I think her a Saint; and wish it were for my soul’s
health to tie faster the knot that has united us—but alas! Father, you
know not the bitterest of my pangs! it is some time that I have had
scruples on the legality of our union: Hippolita is related to me in the
fourth degree—it is true, we had a dispensation: but I have been informed
that she had also been contracted to another. This it is that sits heavy
at my heart: to this state of unlawful wedlock I impute the visitation
that has fallen on me in the death of Conrad!—ease my conscience of this
burden: dissolve our marriage, and accomplish the work of godliness—which
your divine exhortations have commenced in my soul.”
How cutting was the anguish which the good man felt, when he perceived
this turn in the wily Prince! He trembled for Hippolita, whose ruin he
saw was determined; and he feared if Manfred had no hope of recovering
Isabella, that his impatience for a son would direct him to some other
object, who might not be equally proof against the temptation of
Manfred’s rank. For some time the holy man remained absorbed in thought. At length, conceiving some hopes from delay, he thought the wisest
conduct would be to prevent the Prince from despairing of recovering
Isabella. Her the Friar knew he could dispose, from her affection to
Hippolita, and from the aversion she had expressed to him for Manfred’s
addresses, to second his views, till the censures of the church could be
fulminated against a divorce. With this intention, as if struck with the
Prince’s scruples, he at length said:
“My Lord, I have been pondering on what your Highness has said; and if in
truth it is delicacy of conscience that is the real motive of your
repugnance to your virtuous Lady, far be it from me to endeavour to
harden your heart. The church is an indulgent mother: unfold your griefs
to her: she alone can administer comfort to your soul, either by
satisfying your conscience, or upon examination of your scruples, by
setting you at liberty, and indulging you in the lawful means of
continuing your lineage. In the latter case, if the Lady Isabella can be
brought to consent—”
Manfred, who concluded that he had either over-reached the good man, or
that his first warmth had been but a tribute paid to appearance, was
overjoyed at this sudden turn, and repeated the most magnificent
promises, if he should succeed by the Friar’s mediation. The
well-meaning priest suffered him to deceive himself, fully determined to
traverse his views, instead of seconding them. “Since we now understand one another,” resumed the Prince, “I expect,
Father, that you satisfy me in one point. Who is the youth that I found
in the vault? He must have been privy to Isabella’s flight: tell me
truly, is he her lover? or is he an agent for another’s passion? I have
often suspected Isabella’s indifference to my son: a thousand
circumstances crowd on my mind that confirm that suspicion. She herself
was so conscious of it, that while I discoursed her in the gallery, she
outran my suspicions, and endeavoured to justify herself from coolness to
Conrad.”
The Friar, who knew nothing of the youth, but what he had learnt
occasionally from the Princess, ignorant what was become of him, and not
sufficiently reflecting on the impetuosity of Manfred’s temper, conceived
that it might not be amiss to sow the seeds of jealousy in his mind: they
might be turned to some use hereafter, either by prejudicing the Prince
against Isabella, if he persisted in that union or by diverting his
attention to a wrong scent, and employing his thoughts on a visionary
intrigue, prevent his engaging in any new pursuit. With this unhappy
policy, he answered in a manner to confirm Manfred in the belief of some
connection between Isabella and the youth. The Prince, whose passions
wanted little fuel to throw them into a blaze, fell into a rage at the
idea of what the Friar suggested. “I will fathom to the bottom of this intrigue,” cried he; and quitting
Jerome abruptly, with a command to remain there till his return, he
hastened to the great hall of the castle, and ordered the peasant to be
brought before him. “Thou hardened young impostor!” said the Prince, as soon as he saw the
youth; “what becomes of thy boasted veracity now? it was Providence, was
it, and the light of the moon, that discovered the lock of the trap-door
to thee? Tell me, audacious boy, who thou art, and how long thou hast
been acquainted with the Princess—and take care to answer with less
equivocation than thou didst last night, or tortures shall wring the
truth from thee.”
The young man, perceiving that his share in the flight of the Princess
was discovered, and concluding that anything he should say could no
longer be of any service or detriment to her, replied—
“I am no impostor, my Lord, nor have I deserved opprobrious language. I
answered to every question your Highness put to me last night with the
same veracity that I shall speak now: and that will not be from fear of
your tortures, but because my soul abhors a falsehood. Please to repeat
your questions, my Lord; I am ready to give you all the satisfaction in
my power.”
“You know my questions,” replied the Prince, “and only want time to
prepare an evasion. Speak directly; who art thou? and how long hast thou
been known to the Princess?”
“I am a labourer at the next village,” said the peasant; “my name is
Theodore. The Princess found me in the vault last night: before that
hour I never was in her presence.”
“I may believe as much or as little as I please of this,” said Manfred;
“but I will hear thy own story before I examine into the truth of it. Tell me, what reason did the Princess give thee for making her escape? thy life depends on thy answer.”
“She told me,” replied Theodore, “that she was on the brink of
destruction, and that if she could not escape from the castle, she was in
danger in a few moments of being made miserable for ever.”
“And on this slight foundation, on a silly girl’s report,” said Manfred,
“thou didst hazard my displeasure?”
“I fear no man’s displeasure,” said Theodore, “when a woman in distress
puts herself under my protection.”
During this examination, Matilda was going to the apartment of Hippolita. At the upper end of the hall, where Manfred sat, was a boarded gallery
with latticed windows, through which Matilda and Bianca were to pass. Hearing her father’s voice, and seeing the servants assembled round him,
she stopped to learn the occasion. The prisoner soon drew her attention:
the steady and composed manner in which he answered, and the gallantry of
his last reply, which were the first words she heard distinctly,
interested her in his favour. His person was noble, handsome, and
commanding, even in that situation: but his countenance soon engrossed
her whole care. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
“Heavens! Bianca,” said the Princess softly, “do I dream? or is not that
youth the exact resemblance of Alfonso’s picture in the gallery?”
She could say no more, for her father’s voice grew louder at every word. “This bravado,” said he, “surpasses all thy former insolence. Thou shalt
experience the wrath with which thou darest to trifle. Seize him,”
continued Manfred, “and bind him—the first news the Princess hears of her
champion shall be, that he has lost his head for her sake.”
“The injustice of which thou art guilty towards me,” said Theodore,
“convinces me that I have done a good deed in delivering the Princess
from thy tyranny. May she be happy, whatever becomes of me!”
“This is a lover!” cried Manfred in a rage: “a peasant within sight of
death is not animated by such sentiments. Tell me, tell me, rash boy,
who thou art, or the rack shall force thy secret from thee.”
“Thou hast threatened me with death already,” said the youth, “for the
truth I have told thee: if that is all the encouragement I am to expect
for sincerity, I am not tempted to indulge thy vain curiosity farther.”
“Then thou wilt not speak?” said Manfred. “I will not,” replied he. “Bear him away into the courtyard,” said Manfred; “I will see his head
this instant severed from his body.”
Matilda fainted at hearing those words. Bianca shrieked, and cried—“Help! help! the Princess is dead!”
Manfred started at this ejaculation, and demanded what was the matter! The young peasant, who heard it too, was struck with horror, and asked
eagerly the same question; but Manfred ordered him to be hurried into
the court, and kept there for execution, till he had informed himself
of the cause of Bianca’s shrieks. When he learned the meaning, he
treated it as a womanish panic, and ordering Matilda to be carried to
her apartment, he rushed into the court, and calling for one of his
guards, bade Theodore kneel down, and prepare to receive the fatal blow. The undaunted youth received the bitter sentence with a resignation that
touched every heart but Manfred’s. He wished earnestly to know the
meaning of the words he had heard relating to the Princess; but fearing
to exasperate the tyrant more against her, he desisted. The only boon he
deigned to ask was, that he might be permitted to have a confessor, and
make his peace with heaven. Manfred, who hoped by the confessor’s means
to come at the youth’s history, readily granted his request; and being
convinced that Father Jerome was now in his interest, he ordered him to
be called and shrive the prisoner. The holy man, who had little foreseen
the catastrophe that his imprudence occasioned, fell on his knees to the
Prince, and adjured him in the most solemn manner not to shed innocent
blood. He accused himself in the bitterest terms for his indiscretion,
endeavoured to disculpate the youth, and left no method untried to soften
the tyrant’s rage. Manfred, more incensed than appeased by Jerome’s
intercession, whose retraction now made him suspect he had been imposed
upon by both, commanded the Friar to do his duty, telling him he would
not allow the prisoner many minutes for confession. “Nor do I ask many, my Lord,” said the unhappy young man. “My sins,
thank heaven, have not been numerous; nor exceed what might be expected
at my years. Dry your tears, good Father, and let us despatch. This is
a bad world; nor have I had cause to leave it with regret.”
“Oh wretched youth!” said Jerome; “how canst thou bear the sight of me
with patience? I am thy murderer! it is I have brought this dismal hour
upon thee!”
“I forgive thee from my soul,” said the youth, “as I hope heaven will
pardon me. Hear my confession, Father; and give me thy blessing.”
“How can I prepare thee for thy passage as I ought?” said Jerome. “Thou
canst not be saved without pardoning thy foes—and canst thou forgive that
impious man there?”
“I can,” said Theodore; “I do.”
“And does not this touch thee, cruel Prince?” said the Friar. “I sent for thee to confess him,” said Manfred, sternly; “not to plead
for him. Thou didst first incense me against him—his blood be upon thy
head!”
“It will! it will!” said the good man, in an agony of sorrow. “Thou and
I must never hope to go where this blessed youth is going!”
“Despatch!” said Manfred; “I am no more to be moved by the whining of
priests than by the shrieks of women.”
“What!” said the youth; “is it possible that my fate could have
occasioned what I heard! Is the Princess then again in thy power?”
“Thou dost but remember me of my wrath,” said Manfred. “Prepare thee,
for this moment is thy last.”
The youth, who felt his indignation rise, and who was touched with the
sorrow which he saw he had infused into all the spectators, as well as
into the Friar, suppressed his emotions, and putting off his doublet, and
unbuttoning his collar, knelt down to his prayers. As he stooped, his
shirt slipped down below his shoulder, and discovered the mark of a
bloody arrow. “Gracious heaven!” cried the holy man, starting; “what do I see? It is
my child! my Theodore!”
The passions that ensued must be conceived; they cannot be painted. The
tears of the assistants were suspended by wonder, rather than stopped by
joy. They seemed to inquire in the eyes of their Lord what they ought to
feel. Surprise, doubt, tenderness, respect, succeeded each other in the
countenance of the youth. He received with modest submission the
effusion of the old man’s tears and embraces. Yet afraid of giving a
loose to hope, and suspecting from what had passed the inflexibility of
Manfred’s temper, he cast a glance towards the Prince, as if to say,
canst thou be unmoved at such a scene as this? Manfred’s heart was capable of being touched. He forgot his anger in his
astonishment; yet his pride forbad his owning himself affected. He even
doubted whether this discovery was not a contrivance of the Friar to save
the youth. “What may this mean?” said he. “How can he be thy son? Is it consistent
with thy profession or reputed sanctity to avow a peasant’s offspring for
the fruit of thy irregular amours!”
“Oh, God!” said the holy man, “dost thou question his being mine? Could
I feel the anguish I do if I were not his father? Spare him! good
Prince! spare him! and revile me as thou pleasest.”
“Spare him! spare him!” cried the attendants; “for this good man’s sake!”
“Peace!” said Manfred, sternly. “I must know more ere I am disposed to
pardon. A Saint’s bastard may be no saint himself.”
“Injurious Lord!” said Theodore, “add not insult to cruelty. If I am
this venerable man’s son, though no Prince, as thou art, know the blood
that flows in my veins—”
“Yes,” said the Friar, interrupting him, “his blood is noble; nor is he
that abject thing, my Lord, you speak him. He is my lawful son, and
Sicily can boast of few houses more ancient than that of Falconara. But
alas! my Lord, what is blood! what is nobility! We are all reptiles,
miserable, sinful creatures. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
It is piety alone that can distinguish us
from the dust whence we sprung, and whither we must return.”
“Truce to your sermon,” said Manfred; “you forget you are no longer Friar
Jerome, but the Count of Falconara. Let me know your history; you will
have time to moralise hereafter, if you should not happen to obtain the
grace of that sturdy criminal there.”
“Mother of God!” said the Friar, “is it possible my Lord can refuse a
father the life of his only, his long-lost, child! Trample me, my Lord,
scorn, afflict me, accept my life for his, but spare my son!”
“Thou canst feel, then,” said Manfred, “what it is to lose an only son! A little hour ago thou didst preach up resignation to me: _my_ house, if
fate so pleased, must perish—but the Count of Falconara—”
“Alas! my Lord,” said Jerome, “I confess I have offended; but aggravate
not an old man’s sufferings! I boast not of my family, nor think of such
vanities—it is nature, that pleads for this boy; it is the memory of the
dear woman that bore him. Is she, Theodore, is she dead?”
“Her soul has long been with the blessed,” said Theodore. “Oh! how?” cried Jerome, “tell me—no—she is happy! Thou art all my care
now!—Most dread Lord! will you—will you grant me my poor boy’s life?”
“Return to thy convent,” answered Manfred; “conduct the Princess hither;
obey me in what else thou knowest; and I promise thee the life of thy
son.”
“Oh! my Lord,” said Jerome, “is my honesty the price I must pay for this
dear youth’s safety?”
“For me!” cried Theodore. “Let me die a thousand deaths, rather than
stain thy conscience. What is it the tyrant would exact of thee? Is the
Princess still safe from his power? Protect her, thou venerable old man;
and let all the weight of his wrath fall on me.”
Jerome endeavoured to check the impetuosity of the youth; and ere Manfred
could reply, the trampling of horses was heard, and a brazen trumpet,
which hung without the gate of the castle, was suddenly sounded. At the
same instant the sable plumes on the enchanted helmet, which still
remained at the other end of the court, were tempestuously agitated, and
nodded thrice, as if bowed by some invisible wearer. CHAPTER III. Manfred’s heart misgave him when he beheld the plumage on the miraculous
casque shaken in concert with the sounding of the brazen trumpet. “Father!” said he to Jerome, whom he now ceased to treat as Count of
Falconara, “what mean these portents? If I have offended—” the plumes
were shaken with greater violence than before. “Unhappy Prince that I am,” cried Manfred. “Holy Father! will you not
assist me with your prayers?”
“My Lord,” replied Jerome, “heaven is no doubt displeased with your
mockery of its servants. Submit yourself to the church; and cease to
persecute her ministers. Dismiss this innocent youth; and learn to
respect the holy character I wear. Heaven will not be trifled with: you
see—” the trumpet sounded again. “I acknowledge I have been too hasty,” said Manfred. “Father, do you go
to the wicket, and demand who is at the gate.”
“Do you grant me the life of Theodore?” replied the Friar. “I do,” said Manfred; “but inquire who is without!”
Jerome, falling on the neck of his son, discharged a flood of tears, that
spoke the fulness of his soul. “You promised to go to the gate,” said Manfred. “I thought,” replied the Friar, “your Highness would excuse my thanking
you first in this tribute of my heart.”
“Go, dearest Sir,” said Theodore; “obey the Prince. I do not deserve
that you should delay his satisfaction for me.”
Jerome, inquiring who was without, was answered, “A Herald.”
“From whom?” said he. “From the Knight of the Gigantic Sabre,” said the Herald; “and I must
speak with the usurper of Otranto.”
Jerome returned to the Prince, and did not fail to repeat the message in
the very words it had been uttered. The first sounds struck Manfred with
terror; but when he heard himself styled usurper, his rage rekindled, and
all his courage revived. “Usurper!—insolent villain!” cried he; “who dares to question my title? Retire, Father; this is no business for Monks: I will meet this
presumptuous man myself. Go to your convent and prepare the Princess’s
return. Your son shall be a hostage for your fidelity: his life depends
on your obedience.”
“Good heaven! my Lord,” cried Jerome, “your Highness did but this instant
freely pardon my child—have you so soon forgot the interposition of
heaven?”
“Heaven,” replied Manfred, “does not send Heralds to question the title
of a lawful Prince. I doubt whether it even notifies its will through
Friars—but that is your affair, not mine. At present you know my
pleasure; and it is not a saucy Herald that shall save your son, if you
do not return with the Princess.”
It was in vain for the holy man to reply. Manfred commanded him to be
conducted to the postern-gate, and shut out from the castle. And he
ordered some of his attendants to carry Theodore to the top of the black
tower, and guard him strictly; scarce permitting the father and son to
exchange a hasty embrace at parting. He then withdrew to the hall, and
seating himself in princely state, ordered the Herald to be admitted to
his presence. “Well! thou insolent!” said the Prince, “what wouldst thou with me?”
“I come,” replied he, “to thee, Manfred, usurper of the principality of
Otranto, from the renowned and invincible Knight, the Knight of the
Gigantic Sabre: in the name of his Lord, Frederic, Marquis of Vicenza, he
demands the Lady Isabella, daughter of that Prince, whom thou hast basely
and traitorously got into thy power, by bribing her false guardians
during his absence; and he requires thee to resign the principality of
Otranto, which thou hast usurped from the said Lord Frederic, the nearest
of blood to the last rightful Lord, Alfonso the Good. If thou dost not
instantly comply with these just demands, he defies thee to single combat
to the last extremity.” And so saying the Herald cast down his warder. “And where is this braggart who sends thee?” said Manfred. “At the distance of a league,” said the Herald: “he comes to make good
his Lord’s claim against thee, as he is a true knight, and thou an
usurper and ravisher.”
Injurious as this challenge was, Manfred reflected that it was not his
interest to provoke the Marquis. He knew how well founded the claim of
Frederic was; nor was this the first time he had heard of it. Frederic’s
ancestors had assumed the style of Princes of Otranto, from the death of
Alfonso the Good without issue; but Manfred, his father, and grandfather,
had been too powerful for the house of Vicenza to dispossess them. Frederic, a martial and amorous young Prince, had married a beautiful
young lady, of whom he was enamoured, and who had died in childbed of
Isabella. Her death affected him so much that he had taken the cross and
gone to the Holy Land, where he was wounded in an engagement against the
infidels, made prisoner, and reported to be dead. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
When the news reached
Manfred’s ears, he bribed the guardians of the Lady Isabella to deliver
her up to him as a bride for his son Conrad, by which alliance he had
proposed to unite the claims of the two houses. This motive, on Conrad’s
death, had co-operated to make him so suddenly resolve on espousing her
himself; and the same reflection determined him now to endeavour at
obtaining the consent of Frederic to this marriage. A like policy
inspired him with the thought of inviting Frederic’s champion into the
castle, lest he should be informed of Isabella’s flight, which he
strictly enjoined his domestics not to disclose to any of the Knight’s
retinue. “Herald,” said Manfred, as soon as he had digested these reflections,
“return to thy master, and tell him, ere we liquidate our differences by
the sword, Manfred would hold some converse with him. Bid him welcome to
my castle, where by my faith, as I am a true Knight, he shall have
courteous reception, and full security for himself and followers. If we
cannot adjust our quarrel by amicable means, I swear he shall depart in
safety, and shall have full satisfaction according to the laws of arms:
So help me God and His holy Trinity!”
The Herald made three obeisances and retired. During this interview Jerome’s mind was agitated by a thousand contrary
passions. He trembled for the life of his son, and his first thought was
to persuade Isabella to return to the castle. Yet he was scarce less
alarmed at the thought of her union with Manfred. He dreaded Hippolita’s
unbounded submission to the will of her Lord; and though he did not doubt
but he could alarm her piety not to consent to a divorce, if he could get
access to her; yet should Manfred discover that the obstruction came from
him, it might be equally fatal to Theodore. He was impatient to know
whence came the Herald, who with so little management had questioned the
title of Manfred: yet he did not dare absent himself from the convent,
lest Isabella should leave it, and her flight be imputed to him. He
returned disconsolately to the monastery, uncertain on what conduct to
resolve. A Monk, who met him in the porch and observed his melancholy
air, said—
“Alas! brother, is it then true that we have lost our excellent Princess
Hippolita?”
The holy man started, and cried, “What meanest thou, brother? I come
this instant from the castle, and left her in perfect health.”
“Martelli,” replied the other Friar, “passed by the convent but a quarter
of an hour ago on his way from the castle, and reported that her Highness
was dead. All our brethren are gone to the chapel to pray for her happy
transit to a better life, and willed me to wait thy arrival. They know
thy holy attachment to that good Lady, and are anxious for the affliction
it will cause in thee—indeed we have all reason to weep; she was a mother
to our house. But this life is but a pilgrimage; we must not murmur—we
shall all follow her! May our end be like hers!”
“Good brother, thou dreamest,” said Jerome. “I tell thee I come from the
castle, and left the Princess well. Where is the Lady Isabella?”
“Poor Gentlewoman!” replied the Friar; “I told her the sad news, and
offered her spiritual comfort. I reminded her of the transitory
condition of mortality, and advised her to take the veil: I quoted the
example of the holy Princess Sanchia of Arragon.”
“Thy zeal was laudable,” said Jerome, impatiently; “but at present it was
unnecessary: Hippolita is well—at least I trust in the Lord she is; I
heard nothing to the contrary—yet, methinks, the Prince’s
earnestness—Well, brother, but where is the Lady Isabella?”
“I know not,” said the Friar; “she wept much, and said she would retire
to her chamber.”
Jerome left his comrade abruptly, and hastened to the Princess, but she
was not in her chamber. He inquired of the domestics of the convent, but
could learn no news of her. He searched in vain throughout the monastery
and the church, and despatched messengers round the neighbourhood, to get
intelligence if she had been seen; but to no purpose. Nothing could
equal the good man’s perplexity. He judged that Isabella, suspecting
Manfred of having precipitated his wife’s death, had taken the alarm, and
withdrawn herself to some more secret place of concealment. This new
flight would probably carry the Prince’s fury to the height. The report
of Hippolita’s death, though it seemed almost incredible, increased his
consternation; and though Isabella’s escape bespoke her aversion of
Manfred for a husband, Jerome could feel no comfort from it, while it
endangered the life of his son. He determined to return to the castle,
and made several of his brethren accompany him to attest his innocence to
Manfred, and, if necessary, join their intercession with his for
Theodore. The Prince, in the meantime, had passed into the court, and ordered the
gates of the castle to be flung open for the reception of the stranger
Knight and his train. In a few minutes the cavalcade arrived. First
came two harbingers with wands. Next a herald, followed by two pages and
two trumpets. Then a hundred foot-guards. These were attended by as
many horse. After them fifty footmen, clothed in scarlet and black, the
colours of the Knight. Then a led horse. Two heralds on each side of a
gentleman on horseback bearing a banner with the arms of Vicenza and
Otranto quarterly—a circumstance that much offended Manfred—but he
stifled his resentment. Two more pages. The Knight’s confessor telling
his beads. Fifty more footmen clad as before. Two Knights habited in
complete armour, their beavers down, comrades to the principal Knight. The squires of the two Knights, carrying their shields and devices. The
Knight’s own squire. A hundred gentlemen bearing an enormous sword, and
seeming to faint under the weight of it. The Knight himself on a
chestnut steed, in complete armour, his lance in the rest, his face
entirely concealed by his vizor, which was surmounted by a large plume of
scarlet and black feathers. Fifty foot-guards with drums and trumpets
closed the procession, which wheeled off to the right and left to make
room for the principal Knight. As soon as he approached the gate he stopped; and the herald advancing,
read again the words of the challenge. Manfred’s eyes were fixed on the
gigantic sword, and he scarce seemed to attend to the cartel: but his
attention was soon diverted by a tempest of wind that rose behind him. He turned and beheld the Plumes of the enchanted helmet agitated in the
same extraordinary manner as before. It required intrepidity like
Manfred’s not to sink under a concurrence of circumstances that seemed to
announce his fate. Yet scorning in the presence of strangers to betray
the courage he had always manifested, he said boldly—
“Sir Knight, whoever thou art, I bid thee welcome. If thou art of mortal
mould, thy valour shall meet its equal: and if thou art a true Knight,
thou wilt scorn to employ sorcery to carry thy point. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
Be these omens
from heaven or hell, Manfred trusts to the righteousness of his cause and
to the aid of St. Nicholas, who has ever protected his house. Alight,
Sir Knight, and repose thyself. To-morrow thou shalt have a fair field,
and heaven befriend the juster side!”
The Knight made no reply, but dismounting, was conducted by Manfred to
the great hall of the castle. As they traversed the court, the Knight
stopped to gaze on the miraculous casque; and kneeling down, seemed to
pray inwardly for some minutes. Rising, he made a sign to the Prince to
lead on. As soon as they entered the hall, Manfred proposed to the
stranger to disarm, but the Knight shook his head in token of refusal. “Sir Knight,” said Manfred, “this is not courteous, but by my good faith
I will not cross thee, nor shalt thou have cause to complain of the
Prince of Otranto. No treachery is designed on my part; I hope none is
intended on thine; here take my gage” (giving him his ring): “your
friends and you shall enjoy the laws of hospitality. Rest here until
refreshments are brought. I will but give orders for the accommodation
of your train, and return to you.” The three Knights bowed as accepting
his courtesy. Manfred directed the stranger’s retinue to be conducted to
an adjacent hospital, founded by the Princess Hippolita for the reception
of pilgrims. As they made the circuit of the court to return towards the
gate, the gigantic sword burst from the supporters, and falling to the
ground opposite to the helmet, remained immovable. Manfred, almost
hardened to preternatural appearances, surmounted the shock of this new
prodigy; and returning to the hall, where by this time the feast was
ready, he invited his silent guests to take their places. Manfred,
however ill his heart was at ease, endeavoured to inspire the company
with mirth. He put several questions to them, but was answered only by
signs. They raised their vizors but sufficiently to feed themselves, and
that sparingly. “Sirs” said the Prince, “ye are the first guests I ever treated within
these walls who scorned to hold any intercourse with me: nor has it oft
been customary, I ween, for princes to hazard their state and dignity
against strangers and mutes. You say you come in the name of Frederic of
Vicenza; I have ever heard that he was a gallant and courteous Knight;
nor would he, I am bold to say, think it beneath him to mix in social
converse with a Prince that is his equal, and not unknown by deeds in
arms. Still ye are silent—well! be it as it may—by the laws of
hospitality and chivalry ye are masters under this roof: ye shall do your
pleasure. But come, give me a goblet of wine; ye will not refuse to
pledge me to the healths of your fair mistresses.”
The principal Knight sighed and crossed himself, and was rising from the
board. “Sir Knight,” said Manfred, “what I said was but in sport. I shall
constrain you in nothing: use your good liking. Since mirth is not your
mood, let us be sad. Business may hit your fancies better. Let us
withdraw, and hear if what I have to unfold may be better relished than
the vain efforts I have made for your pastime.”
Manfred then conducting the three Knights into an inner chamber, shut the
door, and inviting them to be seated, began thus, addressing himself to
the chief personage:—
“You come, Sir Knight, as I understand, in the name of the Marquis of
Vicenza, to re-demand the Lady Isabella, his daughter, who has been
contracted in the face of Holy Church to my son, by the consent of her
legal guardians; and to require me to resign my dominions to your Lord,
who gives himself for the nearest of blood to Prince Alfonso, whose soul
God rest! I shall speak to the latter article of your demands first. You must know, your Lord knows, that I enjoy the principality of Otranto
from my father, Don Manuel, as he received it from his father, Don
Ricardo. Alfonso, their predecessor, dying childless in the Holy Land,
bequeathed his estates to my grandfather, Don Ricardo, in consideration
of his faithful services.” The stranger shook his head. “Sir Knight,” said Manfred, warmly, “Ricardo was a valiant and upright
man; he was a pious man; witness his munificent foundation of the
adjoining church and two convents. He was peculiarly patronised by St.
Nicholas—my grandfather was incapable—I say, Sir, Don Ricardo was
incapable—excuse me, your interruption has disordered me. I venerate the
memory of my grandfather. Well, Sirs, he held this estate; he held it by
his good sword and by the favour of St. Nicholas—so did my father; and
so, Sirs, will I, come what come will. But Frederic, your Lord, is
nearest in blood. I have consented to put my title to the issue of the
sword. Does that imply a vicious title? I might have asked, where is
Frederic your Lord? Report speaks him dead in captivity. You say, your
actions say, he lives—I question it not—I might, Sirs, I might—but I do
not. Other Princes would bid Frederic take his inheritance by force, if
he can: they would not stake their dignity on a single combat: they would
not submit it to the decision of unknown mutes!—pardon me, gentlemen, I
am too warm: but suppose yourselves in my situation: as ye are stout
Knights, would it not move your choler to have your own and the honour of
your ancestors called in question?” “But to the point. Ye require me to
deliver up the Lady Isabella. Sirs, I must ask if ye are authorised to
receive her?”
The Knight nodded. “Receive her,” continued Manfred; “well, you are authorised to receive
her, but, gentle Knight, may I ask if you have full powers?”
The Knight nodded. “’Tis well,” said Manfred; “then hear what I have to offer. Ye see,
gentlemen, before you, the most unhappy of men!” (he began to weep);
“afford me your compassion; I am entitled to it, indeed I am. Know, I
have lost my only hope, my joy, the support of my house—Conrad died
yester morning.”
The Knights discovered signs of surprise. “Yes, Sirs, fate has disposed of my son. Isabella is at liberty.”
“Do you then restore her?” cried the chief Knight, breaking silence. “Afford me your patience,” said Manfred. “I rejoice to find, by this
testimony of your goodwill, that this matter may be adjusted without
blood. It is no interest of mine dictates what little I have farther to
say. Ye behold in me a man disgusted with the world: the loss of my son
has weaned me from earthly cares. Power and greatness have no longer any
charms in my eyes. I wished to transmit the sceptre I had received from
my ancestors with honour to my son—but that is over! Life itself is so
indifferent to me, that I accepted your defiance with joy. A good Knight
cannot go to the grave with more satisfaction than when falling in his
vocation: whatever is the will of heaven, I submit; for alas! Sirs, I am
a man of many sorrows. Manfred is no object of envy, but no doubt you
are acquainted with my story.”
The Knight made signs of ignorance, and seemed curious to have Manfred
proceed. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
“Is it possible, Sirs,” continued the Prince, “that my story should be a
secret to you? Have you heard nothing relating to me and the Princess
Hippolita?”
They shook their heads. “No! Thus, then, Sirs, it is. You think me ambitious: ambition, alas! is composed of more rugged materials. If I were ambitious, I should not
for so many years have been a prey to all the hell of conscientious
scruples. But I weary your patience: I will be brief. Know, then, that
I have long been troubled in mind on my union with the Princess
Hippolita. Oh! Sirs, if ye were acquainted with that excellent woman! if
ye knew that I adore her like a mistress, and cherish her as a friend—but
man was not born for perfect happiness! She shares my scruples, and with
her consent I have brought this matter before the church, for we are
related within the forbidden degrees. I expect every hour the definitive
sentence that must separate us for ever—I am sure you feel for me—I see
you do—pardon these tears!”
The Knights gazed on each other, wondering where this would end. Manfred continued—
“The death of my son betiding while my soul was under this anxiety, I
thought of nothing but resigning my dominions, and retiring for ever from
the sight of mankind. My only difficulty was to fix on a successor, who
would be tender of my people, and to dispose of the Lady Isabella, who is
dear to me as my own blood. I was willing to restore the line of
Alfonso, even in his most distant kindred. And though, pardon me, I am
satisfied it was his will that Ricardo’s lineage should take place of his
own relations; yet where was I to search for those relations? I knew of
none but Frederic, your Lord; he was a captive to the infidels, or dead;
and were he living, and at home, would he quit the flourishing State of
Vicenza for the inconsiderable principality of Otranto? If he would not,
could I bear the thought of seeing a hard, unfeeling, Viceroy set over my
poor faithful people? for, Sirs, I love my people, and thank heaven am
beloved by them. But ye will ask whither tends this long discourse? Briefly, then, thus, Sirs. Heaven in your arrival seems to point out a
remedy for these difficulties and my misfortunes. The Lady Isabella is
at liberty; I shall soon be so. I would submit to anything for the good
of my people. Were it not the best, the only way to extinguish the feuds
between our families, if I was to take the Lady Isabella to wife? You
start. But though Hippolita’s virtues will ever be dear to me, a Prince
must not consider himself; he is born for his people.” A servant at that
instant entering the chamber apprised Manfred that Jerome and several of
his brethren demanded immediate access to him. The Prince, provoked at this interruption, and fearing that the Friar
would discover to the strangers that Isabella had taken sanctuary, was
going to forbid Jerome’s entrance. But recollecting that he was
certainly arrived to notify the Princess’s return, Manfred began to
excuse himself to the Knights for leaving them for a few moments, but was
prevented by the arrival of the Friars. Manfred angrily reprimanded them
for their intrusion, and would have forced them back from the chamber;
but Jerome was too much agitated to be repulsed. He declared aloud the
flight of Isabella, with protestations of his own innocence. Manfred, distracted at the news, and not less at its coming to the
knowledge of the strangers, uttered nothing but incoherent sentences, now
upbraiding the Friar, now apologising to the Knights, earnest to know
what was become of Isabella, yet equally afraid of their knowing;
impatient to pursue her, yet dreading to have them join in the pursuit. He offered to despatch messengers in quest of her, but the chief Knight,
no longer keeping silence, reproached Manfred in bitter terms for his
dark and ambiguous dealing, and demanded the cause of Isabella’s first
absence from the castle. Manfred, casting a stern look at Jerome,
implying a command of silence, pretended that on Conrad’s death he had
placed her in sanctuary until he could determine how to dispose of her. Jerome, who trembled for his son’s life, did not dare contradict this
falsehood, but one of his brethren, not under the same anxiety, declared
frankly that she had fled to their church in the preceding night. The
Prince in vain endeavoured to stop this discovery, which overwhelmed him
with shame and confusion. The principal stranger, amazed at the
contradictions he heard, and more than half persuaded that Manfred had
secreted the Princess, notwithstanding the concern he expressed at her
flight, rushing to the door, said—
“Thou traitor Prince! Isabella shall be found.”
Manfred endeavoured to hold him, but the other Knights assisting their
comrade, he broke from the Prince, and hastened into the court, demanding
his attendants. Manfred, finding it vain to divert him from the pursuit,
offered to accompany him and summoning his attendants, and taking Jerome
and some of the Friars to guide them, they issued from the castle;
Manfred privately giving orders to have the Knight’s company secured,
while to the knight he affected to despatch a messenger to require their
assistance. The company had no sooner quitted the castle than Matilda, who felt
herself deeply interested for the young peasant, since she had seen him
condemned to death in the hall, and whose thoughts had been taken up with
concerting measures to save him, was informed by some of the female
attendants that Manfred had despatched all his men various ways in
pursuit of Isabella. He had in his hurry given this order in general
terms, not meaning to extend it to the guard he had set upon Theodore,
but forgetting it. The domestics, officious to obey so peremptory a
Prince, and urged by their own curiosity and love of novelty to join in
any precipitate chase, had to a man left the castle. Matilda disengaged
herself from her women, stole up to the black tower, and unbolting the
door, presented herself to the astonished Theodore. “Young man,” said she, “though filial duty and womanly modesty condemn
the step I am taking, yet holy charity, surmounting all other ties,
justifies this act. Fly; the doors of thy prison are open: my father and
his domestics are absent; but they may soon return. Be gone in safety;
and may the angels of heaven direct thy course!”
“Thou art surely one of those angels!” said the enraptured Theodore:
“none but a blessed saint could speak, could act—could look—like thee. May I not know the name of my divine protectress? Methought thou namedst
thy father. Is it possible? Can Manfred’s blood feel holy pity! Lovely
Lady, thou answerest not. But how art thou here thyself? Why dost thou
neglect thy own safety, and waste a thought on a wretch like Theodore? Let us fly together: the life thou bestowest shall be dedicated to thy
defence.”
“Alas! | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
thou mistakest,” said Matilda, sighing: “I am Manfred’s daughter,
but no dangers await me.”
“Amazement!” said Theodore; “but last night I blessed myself for yielding
thee the service thy gracious compassion so charitably returns me now.”
“Still thou art in an error,” said the Princess; “but this is no time for
explanation. Fly, virtuous youth, while it is in my power to save thee:
should my father return, thou and I both should indeed have cause to
tremble.”
“How!” said Theodore; “thinkest thou, charming maid, that I will accept
of life at the hazard of aught calamitous to thee? Better I endured a
thousand deaths.”
“I run no risk,” said Matilda, “but by thy delay. Depart; it cannot be
known that I have assisted thy flight.”
“Swear by the saints above,” said Theodore, “that thou canst not be
suspected; else here I vow to await whatever can befall me.”
“Oh! thou art too generous,” said Matilda; “but rest assured that no
suspicion can alight on me.”
“Give me thy beauteous hand in token that thou dost not deceive me,” said
Theodore; “and let me bathe it with the warm tears of gratitude.”
“Forbear!” said the Princess; “this must not be.”
“Alas!” said Theodore, “I have never known but calamity until this
hour—perhaps shall never know other fortune again: suffer the chaste
raptures of holy gratitude: ’tis my soul would print its effusions on thy
hand.”
“Forbear, and be gone,” said Matilda. “How would Isabella approve of
seeing thee at my feet?”
“Who is Isabella?” said the young man with surprise. “Ah, me! I fear,” said the Princess, “I am serving a deceitful one. Hast thou forgot thy curiosity this morning?”
“Thy looks, thy actions, all thy beauteous self seem an emanation of
divinity,” said Theodore; “but thy words are dark and mysterious. Speak,
Lady; speak to thy servant’s comprehension.”
“Thou understandest but too well!” said Matilda; “but once more I command
thee to be gone: thy blood, which I may preserve, will be on my head, if
I waste the time in vain discourse.”
“I go, Lady,” said Theodore, “because it is thy will, and because I would
not bring the grey hairs of my father with sorrow to the grave. Say but,
adored Lady, that I have thy gentle pity.”
“Stay,” said Matilda; “I will conduct thee to the subterraneous vault by
which Isabella escaped; it will lead thee to the church of St. Nicholas,
where thou mayst take sanctuary.”
“What!” said Theodore, “was it another, and not thy lovely self that I
assisted to find the subterraneous passage?”
“It was,” said Matilda; “but ask no more; I tremble to see thee still
abide here; fly to the sanctuary.”
“To sanctuary,” said Theodore; “no, Princess; sanctuaries are for
helpless damsels, or for criminals. Theodore’s soul is free from guilt,
nor will wear the appearance of it. Give me a sword, Lady, and thy
father shall learn that Theodore scorns an ignominious flight.”
“Rash youth!” said Matilda; “thou wouldst not dare to lift thy
presumptuous arm against the Prince of Otranto?”
“Not against thy father; indeed, I dare not,” said Theodore. “Excuse me,
Lady; I had forgotten. But could I gaze on thee, and remember thou art
sprung from the tyrant Manfred! But he is thy father, and from this
moment my injuries are buried in oblivion.”
A deep and hollow groan, which seemed to come from above, startled the
Princess and Theodore. “Good heaven! we are overheard!” said the Princess. They listened; but
perceiving no further noise, they both concluded it the effect of pent-up
vapours. And the Princess, preceding Theodore softly, carried him to her
father’s armoury, where, equipping him with a complete suit, he was
conducted by Matilda to the postern-gate. “Avoid the town,” said the Princess, “and all the western side of the
castle. ’Tis there the search must be making by Manfred and the
strangers; but hie thee to the opposite quarter. Yonder behind that
forest to the east is a chain of rocks, hollowed into a labyrinth of
caverns that reach to the sea coast. There thou mayst lie concealed,
till thou canst make signs to some vessel to put on shore, and take thee
off. Go! heaven be thy guide!—and sometimes in thy prayers
remember—Matilda!”
Theodore flung himself at her feet, and seizing her lily hand, which with
struggles she suffered him to kiss, he vowed on the earliest opportunity
to get himself knighted, and fervently entreated her permission to swear
himself eternally her knight. Ere the Princess could reply, a clap of
thunder was suddenly heard that shook the battlements. Theodore,
regardless of the tempest, would have urged his suit: but the Princess,
dismayed, retreated hastily into the castle, and commanded the youth to
be gone with an air that would not be disobeyed. He sighed, and retired,
but with eyes fixed on the gate, until Matilda, closing it, put an end to
an interview, in which the hearts of both had drunk so deeply of a
passion, which both now tasted for the first time. Theodore went pensively to the convent, to acquaint his father with his
deliverance. There he learned the absence of Jerome, and the pursuit
that was making after the Lady Isabella, with some particulars of whose
story he now first became acquainted. The generous gallantry of his
nature prompted him to wish to assist her; but the Monks could lend him
no lights to guess at the route she had taken. He was not tempted to
wander far in search of her, for the idea of Matilda had imprinted itself
so strongly on his heart, that he could not bear to absent himself at
much distance from her abode. The tenderness Jerome had expressed for
him concurred to confirm this reluctance; and he even persuaded himself
that filial affection was the chief cause of his hovering between the
castle and monastery. Until Jerome should return at night, Theodore at length determined to
repair to the forest that Matilda had pointed out to him. Arriving
there, he sought the gloomiest shades, as best suited to the pleasing
melancholy that reigned in his mind. In this mood he roved insensibly to
the caves which had formerly served as a retreat to hermits, and were now
reported round the country to be haunted by evil spirits. He recollected
to have heard this tradition; and being of a brave and adventurous
disposition, he willingly indulged his curiosity in exploring the secret
recesses of this labyrinth. He had not penetrated far before he thought
he heard the steps of some person who seemed to retreat before him. Theodore, though firmly grounded in all our holy faith enjoins to be
believed, had no apprehension that good men were abandoned without cause
to the malice of the powers of darkness. He thought the place more
likely to be infested by robbers than by those infernal agents who are
reported to molest and bewilder travellers. He had long burned with
impatience to approve his valour. Drawing his sabre, he marched sedately
onwards, still directing his steps as the imperfect rustling sound before
him led the way. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
The armour he wore was a like indication to the person
who avoided him. Theodore, now convinced that he was not mistaken,
redoubled his pace, and evidently gained on the person that fled, whose
haste increasing, Theodore came up just as a woman fell breathless before
him. He hasted to raise her, but her terror was so great that he
apprehended she would faint in his arms. He used every gentle word to
dispel her alarms, and assured her that far from injuring, he would
defend her at the peril of his life. The Lady recovering her spirits
from his courteous demeanour, and gazing on her protector, said—
“Sure, I have heard that voice before!”
“Not to my knowledge,” replied Theodore; “unless, as I conjecture, thou
art the Lady Isabella.”
“Merciful heaven!” cried she. “Thou art not sent in quest of me, art
thou?” And saying those words, she threw herself at his feet, and
besought him not to deliver her up to Manfred. “To Manfred!” cried Theodore—“no, Lady; I have once already delivered
thee from his tyranny, and it shall fare hard with me now, but I will
place thee out of the reach of his daring.”
“Is it possible,” said she, “that thou shouldst be the generous unknown
whom I met last night in the vault of the castle? Sure thou art not a
mortal, but my guardian angel. On my knees, let me thank—”
“Hold! gentle Princess,” said Theodore, “nor demean thyself before a poor
and friendless young man. If heaven has selected me for thy deliverer,
it will accomplish its work, and strengthen my arm in thy cause. But
come, Lady, we are too near the mouth of the cavern; let us seek its
inmost recesses. I can have no tranquillity till I have placed thee
beyond the reach of danger.”
“Alas! what mean you, sir?” said she. “Though all your actions are
noble, though your sentiments speak the purity of your soul, is it
fitting that I should accompany you alone into these perplexed retreats? Should we be found together, what would a censorious world think of my
conduct?”
“I respect your virtuous delicacy,” said Theodore; “nor do you harbour a
suspicion that wounds my honour. I meant to conduct you into the most
private cavity of these rocks, and then at the hazard of my life to guard
their entrance against every living thing. Besides, Lady,” continued he,
drawing a deep sigh, “beauteous and all perfect as your form is, and
though my wishes are not guiltless of aspiring, know, my soul is
dedicated to another; and although—” A sudden noise prevented Theodore
from proceeding. They soon distinguished these sounds—
“Isabella! what, ho! Isabella!” The trembling Princess relapsed into her
former agony of fear. Theodore endeavoured to encourage her, but in
vain. He assured her he would die rather than suffer her to return under
Manfred’s power; and begging her to remain concealed, he went forth to
prevent the person in search of her from approaching. At the mouth of the cavern he found an armed Knight, discoursing with a
peasant, who assured him he had seen a lady enter the passes of the rock. The Knight was preparing to seek her, when Theodore, placing himself in
his way, with his sword drawn, sternly forbad him at his peril to
advance. “And who art thou, who darest to cross my way?” said the Knight,
haughtily. “One who does not dare more than he will perform,” said Theodore. “I seek the Lady Isabella,” said the Knight, “and understand she has
taken refuge among these rocks. Impede me not, or thou wilt repent
having provoked my resentment.”
“Thy purpose is as odious as thy resentment is contemptible,” said
Theodore. “Return whence thou camest, or we shall soon know whose
resentment is most terrible.”
The stranger, who was the principal Knight that had arrived from the
Marquis of Vicenza, had galloped from Manfred as he was busied in getting
information of the Princess, and giving various orders to prevent her
falling into the power of the three Knights. Their chief had suspected
Manfred of being privy to the Princess’s absconding, and this insult from
a man, who he concluded was stationed by that Prince to secrete her,
confirming his suspicions, he made no reply, but discharging a blow with
his sabre at Theodore, would soon have removed all obstruction, if
Theodore, who took him for one of Manfred’s captains, and who had no
sooner given the provocation than prepared to support it, had not
received the stroke on his shield. The valour that had so long been
smothered in his breast broke forth at once; he rushed impetuously on the
Knight, whose pride and wrath were not less powerful incentives to hardy
deeds. The combat was furious, but not long. Theodore wounded the
Knight in three several places, and at last disarmed him as he fainted by
the loss of blood. The peasant, who had fled on the first onset, had given the alarm to some
of Manfred’s domestics, who, by his orders, were dispersed through the
forest in pursuit of Isabella. They came up as the Knight fell, whom
they soon discovered to be the noble stranger. Theodore, notwithstanding
his hatred to Manfred, could not behold the victory he had gained without
emotions of pity and generosity. But he was more touched when he learned
the quality of his adversary, and was informed that he was no retainer,
but an enemy, of Manfred. He assisted the servants of the latter in
disarming the Knight, and in endeavouring to stanch the blood that flowed
from his wounds. The Knight recovering his speech, said, in a faint and
faltering voice—
“Generous foe, we have both been in an error. I took thee for an
instrument of the tyrant; I perceive thou hast made the like mistake. It
is too late for excuses. I faint. If Isabella is at hand—call her—I
have important secrets to—”
“He is dying!” said one of the attendants; “has nobody a crucifix about
them? Andrea, do thou pray over him.”
“Fetch some water,” said Theodore, “and pour it down his throat, while I
hasten to the Princess.”
Saying this, he flew to Isabella, and in few words told her modestly that
he had been so unfortunate by mistake as to wound a gentleman from her
father’s court, who wished, ere he died, to impart something of
consequence to her. The Princess, who had been transported at hearing the voice of Theodore,
as he called to her to come forth, was astonished at what she heard. Suffering herself to be conducted by Theodore, the new proof of whose
valour recalled her dispersed spirits, she came where the bleeding Knight
lay speechless on the ground. But her fears returned when she beheld the
domestics of Manfred. She would again have fled if Theodore had not made
her observe that they were unarmed, and had not threatened them with
instant death if they should dare to seize the Princess. The stranger, opening his eyes, and beholding a woman, said, “Art
thou—pray tell me truly—art thou Isabella of Vicenza?”
“I am,” said she: “good heaven restore thee!”
“Then thou—then thou”—said the Knight, struggling for
utterance—“seest—thy father. Give me one—”
“Oh! amazement! horror! what do I hear! | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
what do I see!” cried Isabella. “My father! You my father! How came you here, Sir? For heaven’s sake,
speak! Oh! run for help, or he will expire!”
“’Tis most true,” said the wounded Knight, exerting all his force; “I am
Frederic thy father. Yes, I came to deliver thee. It will not be. Give
me a parting kiss, and take—”
“Sir,” said Theodore, “do not exhaust yourself; suffer us to convey you
to the castle.”
“To the castle!” said Isabella. “Is there no help nearer than the
castle? Would you expose my father to the tyrant? If he goes thither, I
dare not accompany him; and yet, can I leave him!”
“My child,” said Frederic, “it matters not for me whither I am carried. A few minutes will place me beyond danger; but while I have eyes to dote
on thee, forsake me not, dear Isabella! This brave Knight—I know not who
he is—will protect thy innocence. Sir, you will not abandon my child,
will you?”
Theodore, shedding tears over his victim, and vowing to guard the
Princess at the expense of his life, persuaded Frederic to suffer himself
to be conducted to the castle. They placed him on a horse belonging to
one of the domestics, after binding up his wounds as well as they were
able. Theodore marched by his side; and the afflicted Isabella, who
could not bear to quit him, followed mournfully behind. CHAPTER IV. The sorrowful troop no sooner arrived at the castle, than they were met
by Hippolita and Matilda, whom Isabella had sent one of the domestics
before to advertise of their approach. The ladies causing Frederic to be
conveyed into the nearest chamber, retired, while the surgeons examined
his wounds. Matilda blushed at seeing Theodore and Isabella together;
but endeavoured to conceal it by embracing the latter, and condoling with
her on her father’s mischance. The surgeons soon came to acquaint
Hippolita that none of the Marquis’s wounds were dangerous; and that he
was desirous of seeing his daughter and the Princesses. Theodore, under pretence of expressing his joy at being freed from his
apprehensions of the combat being fatal to Frederic, could not resist the
impulse of following Matilda. Her eyes were so often cast down on
meeting his, that Isabella, who regarded Theodore as attentively as he
gazed on Matilda, soon divined who the object was that he had told her in
the cave engaged his affections. While this mute scene passed, Hippolita
demanded of Frederic the cause of his having taken that mysterious course
for reclaiming his daughter; and threw in various apologies to excuse her
Lord for the match contracted between their children. Frederic, however incensed against Manfred, was not insensible to the
courtesy and benevolence of Hippolita: but he was still more struck with
the lovely form of Matilda. Wishing to detain them by his bedside, he
informed Hippolita of his story. He told her that, while prisoner to the
infidels, he had dreamed that his daughter, of whom he had learned no
news since his captivity, was detained in a castle, where she was in
danger of the most dreadful misfortunes: and that if he obtained his
liberty, and repaired to a wood near Joppa, he would learn more. Alarmed
at this dream, and incapable of obeying the direction given by it, his
chains became more grievous than ever. But while his thoughts were
occupied on the means of obtaining his liberty, he received the agreeable
news that the confederate Princes who were warring in Palestine had paid
his ransom. He instantly set out for the wood that had been marked in
his dream. For three days he and his attendants had wandered in the forest without
seeing a human form: but on the evening of the third they came to a cell,
in which they found a venerable hermit in the agonies of death. Applying
rich cordials, they brought the fainting man to his speech. “My sons,” said he, “I am bounden to your charity—but it is in vain—I am
going to my eternal rest—yet I die with the satisfaction of performing
the will of heaven. When first I repaired to this solitude, after seeing
my country become a prey to unbelievers—it is alas! above fifty years
since I was witness to that dreadful scene! St. Nicholas appeared to me,
and revealed a secret, which he bade me never disclose to mortal man, but
on my death-bed. This is that tremendous hour, and ye are no doubt the
chosen warriors to whom I was ordered to reveal my trust. As soon as ye
have done the last offices to this wretched corse, dig under the seventh
tree on the left hand of this poor cave, and your pains will—Oh! good
heaven receive my soul!” With those words the devout man breathed his
last. “By break of day,” continued Frederic, “when we had committed the holy
relics to earth, we dug according to direction. But what was our
astonishment when about the depth of six feet we discovered an enormous
sabre—the very weapon yonder in the court. On the blade, which was then
partly out of the scabbard, though since closed by our efforts in
removing it, were written the following lines—no; excuse me, Madam,”
added the Marquis, turning to Hippolita; “if I forbear to repeat them: I
respect your sex and rank, and would not be guilty of offending your ear
with sounds injurious to aught that is dear to you.”
He paused. Hippolita trembled. She did not doubt but Frederic was
destined by heaven to accomplish the fate that seemed to threaten her
house. Looking with anxious fondness at Matilda, a silent tear stole
down her cheek: but recollecting herself, she said—
“Proceed, my Lord; heaven does nothing in vain; mortals must receive its
divine behests with lowliness and submission. It is our part to
deprecate its wrath, or bow to its decrees. Repeat the sentence, my
Lord; we listen resigned.”
Frederic was grieved that he had proceeded so far. The dignity and
patient firmness of Hippolita penetrated him with respect, and the tender
silent affection with which the Princess and her daughter regarded each
other, melted him almost to tears. Yet apprehensive that his forbearance
to obey would be more alarming, he repeated in a faltering and low voice
the following lines:
“Where’er a casque that suits this sword is found,
With perils is thy daughter compass’d round;
_Alfonso’s_ blood alone can save the maid,
And quiet a long restless Prince’s shade.”
“What is there in these lines,” said Theodore impatiently, “that affects
these Princesses? | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
Why were they to be shocked by a mysterious delicacy,
that has so little foundation?”
“Your words are rude, young man,” said the Marquis; “and though fortune
has favoured you once—”
“My honoured Lord,” said Isabella, who resented Theodore’s warmth, which
she perceived was dictated by his sentiments for Matilda, “discompose not
yourself for the glosing of a peasant’s son: he forgets the reverence he
owes you; but he is not accustomed—”
Hippolita, concerned at the heat that had arisen, checked Theodore for
his boldness, but with an air acknowledging his zeal; and changing the
conversation, demanded of Frederic where he had left her Lord? As the
Marquis was going to reply, they heard a noise without, and rising to
inquire the cause, Manfred, Jerome, and part of the troop, who had met an
imperfect rumour of what had happened, entered the chamber. Manfred
advanced hastily towards Frederic’s bed to condole with him on his
misfortune, and to learn the circumstances of the combat, when starting
in an agony of terror and amazement, he cried—
“Ha! what art thou? thou dreadful spectre! is my hour come?”
“My dearest, gracious Lord,” cried Hippolita, clasping him in her arms,
“what is it you see! Why do you fix your eye-balls thus?”
“What!” cried Manfred breathless; “dost thou see nothing, Hippolita? Is
this ghastly phantom sent to me alone—to me, who did not—”
“For mercy’s sweetest self, my Lord,” said Hippolita, “resume your soul,
command your reason. There is none here, but us, your friends.”
“What, is not that Alfonso?” cried Manfred. “Dost thou not see him? can
it be my brain’s delirium?”
“This! my Lord,” said Hippolita; “this is Theodore, the youth who has
been so unfortunate.”
“Theodore!” said Manfred mournfully, and striking his forehead; “Theodore
or a phantom, he has unhinged the soul of Manfred. But how comes he
here? and how comes he in armour?”
“I believe he went in search of Isabella,” said Hippolita. “Of Isabella!” said Manfred, relapsing into rage; “yes, yes, that is not
doubtful—. But how did he escape from durance in which I left him? Was
it Isabella, or this hypocritical old Friar, that procured his
enlargement?”
“And would a parent be criminal, my Lord,” said Theodore, “if he
meditated the deliverance of his child?”
Jerome, amazed to hear himself in a manner accused by his son, and
without foundation, knew not what to think. He could not comprehend how
Theodore had escaped, how he came to be armed, and to encounter Frederic. Still he would not venture to ask any questions that might tend to
inflame Manfred’s wrath against his son. Jerome’s silence convinced
Manfred that he had contrived Theodore’s release. “And is it thus, thou ungrateful old man,” said the Prince, addressing
himself to the Friar, “that thou repayest mine and Hippolita’s bounties? And not content with traversing my heart’s nearest wishes, thou armest
thy bastard, and bringest him into my own castle to insult me!”
“My Lord,” said Theodore, “you wrong my father: neither he nor I are
capable of harbouring a thought against your peace. Is it insolence thus
to surrender myself to your Highness’s pleasure?” added he, laying his
sword respectfully at Manfred’s feet. “Behold my bosom; strike, my Lord,
if you suspect that a disloyal thought is lodged there. There is not a
sentiment engraven on my heart that does not venerate you and yours.”
The grace and fervour with which Theodore uttered these words interested
every person present in his favour. Even Manfred was touched—yet still
possessed with his resemblance to Alfonso, his admiration was dashed with
secret horror. “Rise,” said he; “thy life is not my present purpose. But tell me thy
history, and how thou camest connected with this old traitor here.”
“My Lord,” said Jerome eagerly. “Peace! impostor!” said Manfred; “I will not have him prompted.”
“My Lord,” said Theodore, “I want no assistance; my story is very brief. I was carried at five years of age to Algiers with my mother, who had
been taken by corsairs from the coast of Sicily. She died of grief in
less than a twelvemonth;” the tears gushed from Jerome’s eyes, on whose
countenance a thousand anxious passions stood expressed. “Before she
died,” continued Theodore, “she bound a writing about my arm under my
garments, which told me I was the son of the Count Falconara.”
“It is most true,” said Jerome; “I am that wretched father.”
“Again I enjoin thee silence,” said Manfred: “proceed.”
“I remained in slavery,” said Theodore, “until within these two years,
when attending on my master in his cruises, I was delivered by a
Christian vessel, which overpowered the pirate; and discovering myself to
the captain, he generously put me on shore in Sicily; but alas! instead
of finding a father, I learned that his estate, which was situated on the
coast, had, during his absence, been laid waste by the Rover who had
carried my mother and me into captivity: that his castle had been burnt
to the ground, and that my father on his return had sold what remained,
and was retired into religion in the kingdom of Naples, but where no man
could inform me. Destitute and friendless, hopeless almost of attaining
the transport of a parent’s embrace, I took the first opportunity of
setting sail for Naples, from whence, within these six days, I wandered
into this province, still supporting myself by the labour of my hands;
nor until yester-morn did I believe that heaven had reserved any lot for
me but peace of mind and contented poverty. This, my Lord, is Theodore’s
story. I am blessed beyond my hope in finding a father; I am unfortunate
beyond my desert in having incurred your Highness’s displeasure.”
He ceased. A murmur of approbation gently arose from the audience. “This is not all,” said Frederic; “I am bound in honour to add what he
suppresses. Though he is modest, I must be generous; he is one of the
bravest youths on Christian ground. He is warm too; and from the short
knowledge I have of him, I will pledge myself for his veracity: if what
he reports of himself were not true, he would not utter it—and for me,
youth, I honour a frankness which becomes thy birth; but now, and thou
didst offend me: yet the noble blood which flows in thy veins, may well
be allowed to boil out, when it has so recently traced itself to its
source. Come, my Lord,” (turning to Manfred), “if I can pardon him,
surely you may; it is not the youth’s fault, if you took him for a
spectre.”
This bitter taunt galled the soul of Manfred. “If beings from another world,” replied he haughtily, “have power to
impress my mind with awe, it is more than living man can do; nor could a
stripling’s arm.”
“My Lord,” interrupted Hippolita, “your guest has occasion for repose:
shall we not leave him to his rest?” Saying this, and taking Manfred by
the hand, she took leave of Frederic, and led the company forth. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
The Prince, not sorry to quit a conversation which recalled to mind the
discovery he had made of his most secret sensations, suffered himself to
be conducted to his own apartment, after permitting Theodore, though
under engagement to return to the castle on the morrow (a condition the
young man gladly accepted), to retire with his father to the convent. Matilda and Isabella were too much occupied with their own reflections,
and too little content with each other, to wish for farther converse that
night. They separated each to her chamber, with more expressions of
ceremony and fewer of affection than had passed between them since their
childhood. If they parted with small cordiality, they did but meet with greater
impatience, as soon as the sun was risen. Their minds were in a
situation that excluded sleep, and each recollected a thousand questions
which she wished she had put to the other overnight. Matilda reflected
that Isabella had been twice delivered by Theodore in very critical
situations, which she could not believe accidental. His eyes, it was
true, had been fixed on her in Frederic’s chamber; but that might have
been to disguise his passion for Isabella from the fathers of both. It
were better to clear this up. She wished to know the truth, lest she
should wrong her friend by entertaining a passion for Isabella’s lover. Thus jealousy prompted, and at the same time borrowed an excuse from
friendship to justify its curiosity. Isabella, not less restless, had better foundation for her suspicions. Both Theodore’s tongue and eyes had told her his heart was engaged; it
was true—yet, perhaps, Matilda might not correspond to his passion; she
had ever appeared insensible to love: all her thoughts were set on
heaven. “Why did I dissuade her?” said Isabella to herself; “I am punished for my
generosity; but when did they meet? where? It cannot be; I have deceived
myself; perhaps last night was the first time they ever beheld each
other; it must be some other object that has prepossessed his
affections—if it is, I am not so unhappy as I thought; if it is not my
friend Matilda—how! Can I stoop to wish for the affection of a man, who
rudely and unnecessarily acquainted me with his indifference? and that at
the very moment in which common courtesy demanded at least expressions of
civility. I will go to my dear Matilda, who will confirm me in this
becoming pride. Man is false—I will advise with her on taking the veil:
she will rejoice to find me in this disposition; and I will acquaint her
that I no longer oppose her inclination for the cloister.”
In this frame of mind, and determined to open her heart entirely to
Matilda, she went to that Princess’s chamber, whom she found already
dressed, and leaning pensively on her arm. This attitude, so
correspondent to what she felt herself, revived Isabella’s suspicions,
and destroyed the confidence she had purposed to place in her friend. They blushed at meeting, and were too much novices to disguise their
sensations with address. After some unmeaning questions and replies,
Matilda demanded of Isabella the cause of her flight? The latter, who
had almost forgotten Manfred’s passion, so entirely was she occupied by
her own, concluding that Matilda referred to her last escape from the
convent, which had occasioned the events of the preceding evening,
replied—
“Martelli brought word to the convent that your mother was dead.”
“Oh!” said Matilda, interrupting her, “Bianca has explained that mistake
to me: on seeing me faint, she cried out, ‘The Princess is dead!’ and
Martelli, who had come for the usual dole to the castle—”
“And what made you faint?” said Isabella, indifferent to the rest. Matilda blushed and stammered—
“My father—he was sitting in judgment on a criminal—”
“What criminal?” said Isabella eagerly. “A young man,” said Matilda; “I believe—I think it was that young man that—”
“What, Theodore?” said Isabella. “Yes,” answered she; “I never saw him before; I do not know how he had
offended my father, but as he has been of service to you, I am glad my
Lord has pardoned him.”
“Served me!” replied Isabella; “do you term it serving me, to wound my
father, and almost occasion his death? Though it is but since yesterday
that I am blessed with knowing a parent, I hope Matilda does not think I
am such a stranger to filial tenderness as not to resent the boldness of
that audacious youth, and that it is impossible for me ever to feel any
affection for one who dared to lift his arm against the author of my
being. No, Matilda, my heart abhors him; and if you still retain the
friendship for me that you have vowed from your infancy, you will detest
a man who has been on the point of making me miserable for ever.”
Matilda held down her head and replied: “I hope my dearest Isabella does
not doubt her Matilda’s friendship: I never beheld that youth until
yesterday; he is almost a stranger to me: but as the surgeons have
pronounced your father out of danger, you ought not to harbour
uncharitable resentment against one, who I am persuaded did not know the
Marquis was related to you.”
“You plead his cause very pathetically,” said Isabella, “considering he
is so much a stranger to you! I am mistaken, or he returns your
charity.”
“What mean you?” said Matilda. “Nothing,” said Isabella, repenting that she had given Matilda a hint of
Theodore’s inclination for her. Then changing the discourse, she asked
Matilda what occasioned Manfred to take Theodore for a spectre? “Bless me,” said Matilda, “did not you observe his extreme resemblance to
the portrait of Alfonso in the gallery? I took notice of it to Bianca
even before I saw him in armour; but with the helmet on, he is the very
image of that picture.”
“I do not much observe pictures,” said Isabella: “much less have I
examined this young man so attentively as you seem to have done. Ah? Matilda, your heart is in danger, but let me warn you as a friend, he has
owned to me that he is in love; it cannot be with you, for yesterday was
the first time you ever met—was it not?”
“Certainly,” replied Matilda; “but why does my dearest Isabella conclude
from anything I have said, that”—she paused—then continuing: “he saw you
first, and I am far from having the vanity to think that my little
portion of charms could engage a heart devoted to you; may you be happy,
Isabella, whatever is the fate of Matilda!”
“My lovely friend,” said Isabella, whose heart was too honest to resist a
kind expression, “it is you that Theodore admires; I saw it; I am
persuaded of it; nor shall a thought of my own happiness suffer me to
interfere with yours.”
This frankness drew tears from the gentle Matilda; and jealousy that for
a moment had raised a coolness between these amiable maidens soon gave
way to the natural sincerity and candour of their souls. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
Each confessed
to the other the impression that Theodore had made on her; and this
confidence was followed by a struggle of generosity, each insisting on
yielding her claim to her friend. At length the dignity of Isabella’s
virtue reminding her of the preference which Theodore had almost declared
for her rival, made her determine to conquer her passion, and cede the
beloved object to her friend. During this contest of amity, Hippolita entered her daughter’s chamber. “Madam,” said she to Isabella, “you have so much tenderness for Matilda,
and interest yourself so kindly in whatever affects our wretched house,
that I can have no secrets with my child which are not proper for you to
hear.”
The princesses were all attention and anxiety. “Know then, Madam,” continued Hippolita, “and you my dearest Matilda,
that being convinced by all the events of these two last ominous days,
that heaven purposes the sceptre of Otranto should pass from Manfred’s
hands into those of the Marquis Frederic, I have been perhaps inspired
with the thought of averting our total destruction by the union of our
rival houses. With this view I have been proposing to Manfred, my lord,
to tender this dear, dear child to Frederic, your father.”
“Me to Lord Frederic!” cried Matilda; “good heavens! my gracious
mother—and have you named it to my father?”
“I have,” said Hippolita; “he listened benignly to my proposal, and is
gone to break it to the Marquis.”
“Ah! wretched princess!” cried Isabella; “what hast thou done! what ruin
has thy inadvertent goodness been preparing for thyself, for me, and for
Matilda!”
“Ruin from me to you and to my child!” said Hippolita “what can this
mean?”
“Alas!” said Isabella, “the purity of your own heart prevents your seeing
the depravity of others. Manfred, your lord, that impious man—”
“Hold,” said Hippolita; “you must not in my presence, young lady, mention
Manfred with disrespect: he is my lord and husband, and—”
“Will not long be so,” said Isabella, “if his wicked purposes can be
carried into execution.”
“This language amazes me,” said Hippolita. “Your feeling, Isabella, is
warm; but until this hour I never knew it betray you into intemperance. What deed of Manfred authorises you to treat him as a murderer, an
assassin?”
“Thou virtuous, and too credulous Princess!” replied Isabella; “it is not
thy life he aims at—it is to separate himself from thee! to divorce thee! to—”
“To divorce me!” “To divorce my mother!” cried Hippolita and Matilda at
once. “Yes,” said Isabella; “and to complete his crime, he meditates—I cannot
speak it!”
“What can surpass what thou hast already uttered?” said Matilda. Hippolita was silent. Grief choked her speech; and the recollection of
Manfred’s late ambiguous discourses confirmed what she heard. “Excellent, dear lady! madam! mother!” cried Isabella, flinging herself
at Hippolita’s feet in a transport of passion; “trust me, believe me, I
will die a thousand deaths sooner than consent to injure you, than yield
to so odious—oh!—”
“This is too much!” cried Hippolita: “What crimes does one crime suggest! Rise, dear Isabella; I do not doubt your virtue. Oh! Matilda, this
stroke is too heavy for thee! weep not, my child; and not a murmur, I
charge thee. Remember, he is thy father still!”
“But you are my mother too,” said Matilda fervently; “and you are
virtuous, you are guiltless!—Oh! must not I, must not I complain?”
“You must not,” said Hippolita—“come, all will yet be well. Manfred, in
the agony for the loss of thy brother, knew not what he said; perhaps
Isabella misunderstood him; his heart is good—and, my child, thou knowest
not all! There is a destiny hangs over us; the hand of Providence is
stretched out; oh! could I but save thee from the wreck! Yes,” continued
she in a firmer tone, “perhaps the sacrifice of myself may atone for all;
I will go and offer myself to this divorce—it boots not what becomes of
me. I will withdraw into the neighbouring monastery, and waste the
remainder of life in prayers and tears for my child and—the Prince!”
“Thou art as much too good for this world,” said Isabella, “as Manfred is
execrable; but think not, lady, that thy weakness shall determine for me. I swear, hear me all ye angels—”
“Stop, I adjure thee,” cried Hippolita: “remember thou dost not depend on
thyself; thou hast a father.”
“My father is too pious, too noble,” interrupted Isabella, “to command an
impious deed. But should he command it; can a father enjoin a cursed
act? I was contracted to the son, can I wed the father? No, madam, no;
force should not drag me to Manfred’s hated bed. I loathe him, I abhor
him: divine and human laws forbid—and my friend, my dearest Matilda! would I wound her tender soul by injuring her adored mother? my own
mother—I never have known another”—
“Oh! she is the mother of both!” cried Matilda: “can we, can we,
Isabella, adore her too much?”
“My lovely children,” said the touched Hippolita, “your tenderness
overpowers me—but I must not give way to it. It is not ours to make
election for ourselves: heaven, our fathers, and our husbands must decide
for us. Have patience until you hear what Manfred and Frederic have
determined. If the Marquis accepts Matilda’s hand, I know she will
readily obey. Heaven may interpose and prevent the rest. What means my
child?” continued she, seeing Matilda fall at her feet with a flood of
speechless tears—“But no; answer me not, my daughter: I must not hear a
word against the pleasure of thy father.”
“Oh! doubt not my obedience, my dreadful obedience to him and to you!”
said Matilda. “But can I, most respected of women, can I experience all
this tenderness, this world of goodness, and conceal a thought from the
best of mothers?”
“What art thou going to utter?” said Isabella trembling. “Recollect
thyself, Matilda.”
“No, Isabella,” said the Princess, “I should not deserve this
incomparable parent, if the inmost recesses of my soul harboured a
thought without her permission—nay, I have offended her; I have suffered
a passion to enter my heart without her avowal—but here I disclaim it;
here I vow to heaven and her—”
“My child! my child;” said Hippolita, “what words are these! what new
calamities has fate in store for us! Thou, a passion? Thou, in this
hour of destruction—”
“Oh! I see all my guilt!” said Matilda. “I abhor myself, if I cost my
mother a pang. She is the dearest thing I have on earth—Oh! I will
never, never behold him more!”
“Isabella,” said Hippolita, “thou art conscious to this unhappy secret,
whatever it is. Speak!”
“What!” cried Matilda, “have I so forfeited my mother’s love, that she
will not permit me even to speak my own guilt? oh! wretched, wretched
Matilda!”
“Thou art too cruel,” said Isabella to Hippolita: “canst thou behold this
anguish of a virtuous mind, and not commiserate it?”
“Not pity my child!” said Hippolita, catching Matilda in her arms—“Oh! I
know she is good, she is all virtue, all tenderness, and duty. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
I do
forgive thee, my excellent, my only hope!”
The princesses then revealed to Hippolita their mutual inclination for
Theodore, and the purpose of Isabella to resign him to Matilda. Hippolita blamed their imprudence, and showed them the improbability that
either father would consent to bestow his heiress on so poor a man,
though nobly born. Some comfort it gave her to find their passion of so
recent a date, and that Theodore had had but little cause to suspect it
in either. She strictly enjoined them to avoid all correspondence with
him. This Matilda fervently promised: but Isabella, who flattered
herself that she meant no more than to promote his union with her friend,
could not determine to avoid him; and made no reply. “I will go to the convent,” said Hippolita, “and order new masses to be
said for a deliverance from these calamities.”
“Oh! my mother,” said Matilda, “you mean to quit us: you mean to take
sanctuary, and to give my father an opportunity of pursuing his fatal
intention. Alas! on my knees I supplicate you to forbear; will you leave
me a prey to Frederic? I will follow you to the convent.”
“Be at peace, my child,” said Hippolita: “I will return instantly. I
will never abandon thee, until I know it is the will of heaven, and for
thy benefit.”
“Do not deceive me,” said Matilda. “I will not marry Frederic until thou
commandest it. Alas! what will become of me?”
“Why that exclamation?” said Hippolita. “I have promised thee to
return—”
“Ah! my mother,” replied Matilda, “stay and save me from myself. A frown
from thee can do more than all my father’s severity. I have given away
my heart, and you alone can make me recall it.”
“No more,” said Hippolita; “thou must not relapse, Matilda.”
“I can quit Theodore,” said she, “but must I wed another? let me attend
thee to the altar, and shut myself from the world for ever.”
“Thy fate depends on thy father,” said Hippolita; “I have ill-bestowed my
tenderness, if it has taught thee to revere aught beyond him. Adieu! my
child: I go to pray for thee.”
Hippolita’s real purpose was to demand of Jerome, whether in conscience
she might not consent to the divorce. She had oft urged Manfred to
resign the principality, which the delicacy of her conscience rendered an
hourly burthen to her. These scruples concurred to make the separation
from her husband appear less dreadful to her than it would have seemed in
any other situation. Jerome, at quitting the castle overnight, had questioned Theodore
severely why he had accused him to Manfred of being privy to his escape. Theodore owned it had been with design to prevent Manfred’s suspicion
from alighting on Matilda; and added, the holiness of Jerome’s life and
character secured him from the tyrant’s wrath. Jerome was heartily
grieved to discover his son’s inclination for that princess; and leaving
him to his rest, promised in the morning to acquaint him with important
reasons for conquering his passion. Theodore, like Isabella, was too recently acquainted with parental
authority to submit to its decisions against the impulse of his heart. He had little curiosity to learn the Friar’s reasons, and less
disposition to obey them. The lovely Matilda had made stronger
impressions on him than filial affection. All night he pleased himself
with visions of love; and it was not till late after the morning-office,
that he recollected the Friar’s commands to attend him at Alfonso’s tomb. “Young man,” said Jerome, when he saw him, “this tardiness does not
please me. Have a father’s commands already so little weight?”
Theodore made awkward excuses, and attributed his delay to having
overslept himself. “And on whom were thy dreams employed?” said the Friar sternly. His son
blushed. “Come, come,” resumed the Friar, “inconsiderate youth, this
must not be; eradicate this guilty passion from thy breast—”
“Guilty passion!” cried Theodore: “Can guilt dwell with innocent beauty
and virtuous modesty?”
“It is sinful,” replied the Friar, “to cherish those whom heaven has
doomed to destruction. A tyrant’s race must be swept from the earth to
the third and fourth generation.”
“Will heaven visit the innocent for the crimes of the guilty?” said
Theodore. “The fair Matilda has virtues enough—”
“To undo thee:” interrupted Jerome. “Hast thou so soon forgotten that
twice the savage Manfred has pronounced thy sentence?”
“Nor have I forgotten, sir,” said Theodore, “that the charity of his
daughter delivered me from his power. I can forget injuries, but never
benefits.”
“The injuries thou hast received from Manfred’s race,” said the Friar,
“are beyond what thou canst conceive. Reply not, but view this holy
image! Beneath this marble monument rest the ashes of the good Alfonso;
a prince adorned with every virtue: the father of his people! the delight
of mankind! Kneel, headstrong boy, and list, while a father unfolds a
tale of horror that will expel every sentiment from thy soul, but
sensations of sacred vengeance—Alfonso! much injured prince! let thy
unsatisfied shade sit awful on the troubled air, while these trembling
lips—Ha! who comes there?—”
“The most wretched of women!” said Hippolita, entering the choir. “Good
Father, art thou at leisure?—but why this kneeling youth? what means the
horror imprinted on each countenance? why at this venerable tomb—alas! hast thou seen aught?”
“We were pouring forth our orisons to heaven,” replied the Friar, with
some confusion, “to put an end to the woes of this deplorable province. Join with us, Lady! thy spotless soul may obtain an exemption from the
judgments which the portents of these days but too speakingly denounce
against thy house.”
“I pray fervently to heaven to divert them,” said the pious Princess. “Thou knowest it has been the occupation of my life to wrest a blessing
for my Lord and my harmless children.—One alas! is taken from me! would
heaven but hear me for my poor Matilda! Father! intercede for her!”
“Every heart will bless her,” cried Theodore with rapture. “Be dumb, rash youth!” said Jerome. “And thou, fond Princess, contend
not with the Powers above! the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away:
bless His holy name, and submit to his decrees.”
“I do most devoutly,” said Hippolita; “but will He not spare my only
comfort? must Matilda perish too?—ah! Father, I came—but dismiss thy
son. No ear but thine must hear what I have to utter.”
“May heaven grant thy every wish, most excellent Princess!” said Theodore
retiring. Jerome frowned. Hippolita then acquainted the Friar with the proposal she had suggested
to Manfred, his approbation of it, and the tender of Matilda that he was
gone to make to Frederic. Jerome could not conceal his dislike of the
notion, which he covered under pretence of the improbability that
Frederic, the nearest of blood to Alfonso, and who was come to claim his
succession, would yield to an alliance with the usurper of his right. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
But nothing could equal the perplexity of the Friar, when Hippolita
confessed her readiness not to oppose the separation, and demanded his
opinion on the legality of her acquiescence. The Friar caught eagerly at
her request of his advice, and without explaining his aversion to the
proposed marriage of Manfred and Isabella, he painted to Hippolita in the
most alarming colours the sinfulness of her consent, denounced judgments
against her if she complied, and enjoined her in the severest terms to
treat any such proposition with every mark of indignation and refusal. Manfred, in the meantime, had broken his purpose to Frederic, and
proposed the double marriage. That weak Prince, who had been struck with
the charms of Matilda, listened but too eagerly to the offer. He forgot
his enmity to Manfred, whom he saw but little hope of dispossessing by
force; and flattering himself that no issue might succeed from the union
of his daughter with the tyrant, he looked upon his own succession to the
principality as facilitated by wedding Matilda. He made faint opposition
to the proposal; affecting, for form only, not to acquiesce unless
Hippolita should consent to the divorce. Manfred took that upon himself. Transported with his success, and impatient to see himself in a situation
to expect sons, he hastened to his wife’s apartment, determined to extort
her compliance. He learned with indignation that she was absent at the
convent. His guilt suggested to him that she had probably been informed
by Isabella of his purpose. He doubted whether her retirement to the
convent did not import an intention of remaining there, until she could
raise obstacles to their divorce; and the suspicions he had already
entertained of Jerome, made him apprehend that the Friar would not only
traverse his views, but might have inspired Hippolita with the resolution
of taking sanctuary. Impatient to unravel this clue, and to defeat its
success, Manfred hastened to the convent, and arrived there as the Friar
was earnestly exhorting the Princess never to yield to the divorce. “Madam,” said Manfred, “what business drew you hither? why did you not
await my return from the Marquis?”
“I came to implore a blessing on your councils,” replied Hippolita. “My councils do not need a Friar’s intervention,” said Manfred; “and of
all men living is that hoary traitor the only one whom you delight to
confer with?”
“Profane Prince!” said Jerome; “is it at the altar that thou choosest to
insult the servants of the altar?—but, Manfred, thy impious schemes are
known. Heaven and this virtuous lady know them—nay, frown not, Prince. The Church despises thy menaces. Her thunders will be heard above thy
wrath. Dare to proceed in thy cursed purpose of a divorce, until her
sentence be known, and here I lance her anathema at thy head.”
“Audacious rebel!” said Manfred, endeavouring to conceal the awe with
which the Friar’s words inspired him. “Dost thou presume to threaten thy
lawful Prince?”
“Thou art no lawful Prince,” said Jerome; “thou art no Prince—go, discuss
thy claim with Frederic; and when that is done—”
“It is done,” replied Manfred; “Frederic accepts Matilda’s hand, and is
content to waive his claim, unless I have no male issue”—as he spoke
those words three drops of blood fell from the nose of Alfonso’s statue. Manfred turned pale, and the Princess sank on her knees. “Behold!” said the Friar; “mark this miraculous indication that the blood
of Alfonso will never mix with that of Manfred!”
“My gracious Lord,” said Hippolita, “let us submit ourselves to heaven. Think not thy ever obedient wife rebels against thy authority. I have no
will but that of my Lord and the Church. To that revered tribunal let us
appeal. It does not depend on us to burst the bonds that unite us. If
the Church shall approve the dissolution of our marriage, be it so—I have
but few years, and those of sorrow, to pass. Where can they be worn away
so well as at the foot of this altar, in prayers for thine and Matilda’s
safety?”
“But thou shalt not remain here until then,” said Manfred. “Repair with
me to the castle, and there I will advise on the proper measures for a
divorce;—but this meddling Friar comes not thither; my hospitable roof
shall never more harbour a traitor—and for thy Reverence’s offspring,”
continued he, “I banish him from my dominions. He, I ween, is no sacred
personage, nor under the protection of the Church. Whoever weds
Isabella, it shall not be Father Falconara’s started-up son.”
“They start up,” said the Friar, “who are suddenly beheld in the seat of
lawful Princes; but they wither away like the grass, and their place
knows them no more.”
Manfred, casting a look of scorn at the Friar, led Hippolita forth; but
at the door of the church whispered one of his attendants to remain
concealed about the convent, and bring him instant notice, if any one
from the castle should repair thither. CHAPTER V.
Every reflection which Manfred made on the Friar’s behaviour, conspired
to persuade him that Jerome was privy to an amour between Isabella and
Theodore. But Jerome’s new presumption, so dissonant from his former
meekness, suggested still deeper apprehensions. The Prince even
suspected that the Friar depended on some secret support from Frederic,
whose arrival, coinciding with the novel appearance of Theodore, seemed
to bespeak a correspondence. Still more was he troubled with the
resemblance of Theodore to Alfonso’s portrait. The latter he knew had
unquestionably died without issue. Frederic had consented to bestow
Isabella on him. These contradictions agitated his mind with numberless
pangs. He saw but two methods of extricating himself from his difficulties. The
one was to resign his dominions to the Marquis—pride, ambition, and his
reliance on ancient prophecies, which had pointed out a possibility of
his preserving them to his posterity, combated that thought. The other
was to press his marriage with Isabella. After long ruminating on these
anxious thoughts, as he marched silently with Hippolita to the castle, he
at last discoursed with that Princess on the subject of his disquiet, and
used every insinuating and plausible argument to extract her consent to,
even her promise of promoting the divorce. Hippolita needed little
persuasions to bend her to his pleasure. She endeavoured to win him over
to the measure of resigning his dominions; but finding her exhortations
fruitless, she assured him, that as far as her conscience would allow,
she would raise no opposition to a separation, though without better
founded scruples than what he yet alleged, she would not engage to be
active in demanding it. This compliance, though inadequate, was sufficient to raise Manfred’s
hopes. He trusted that his power and wealth would easily advance his
suit at the court of Rome, whither he resolved to engage Frederic to take
a journey on purpose. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
That Prince had discovered so much passion for
Matilda, that Manfred hoped to obtain all he wished by holding out or
withdrawing his daughter’s charms, according as the Marquis should appear
more or less disposed to co-operate in his views. Even the absence of
Frederic would be a material point gained, until he could take further
measures for his security. Dismissing Hippolita to her apartment, he repaired to that of the
Marquis; but crossing the great hall through which he was to pass he met
Bianca. The damsel he knew was in the confidence of both the young
ladies. It immediately occurred to him to sift her on the subject of
Isabella and Theodore. Calling her aside into the recess of the oriel
window of the hall, and soothing her with many fair words and promises,
he demanded of her whether she knew aught of the state of Isabella’s
affections. “I! my Lord! no my Lord—yes my Lord—poor Lady! she is wonderfully alarmed
about her father’s wounds; but I tell her he will do well; don’t your
Highness think so?”
“I do not ask you,” replied Manfred, “what she thinks about her father;
but you are in her secrets. Come, be a good girl and tell me; is there
any young man—ha!—you understand me.”
“Lord bless me! understand your Highness? no, not I. I told her a few
vulnerary herbs and repose—”
“I am not talking,” replied the Prince, impatiently, “about her father; I
know he will do well.”
“Bless me, I rejoice to hear your Highness say so; for though I thought
it not right to let my young Lady despond, methought his greatness had a
wan look, and a something—I remember when young Ferdinand was wounded by
the Venetian—”
“Thou answerest from the point,” interrupted Manfred; “but here, take
this jewel, perhaps that may fix thy attention—nay, no reverences; my
favour shall not stop here—come, tell me truly; how stands Isabella’s
heart?”
“Well! your Highness has such a way!” said Bianca, “to be sure—but can
your Highness keep a secret? if it should ever come out of your lips—”
“It shall not, it shall not,” cried Manfred. “Nay, but swear, your Highness.”
“By my halidame, if it should ever be known that I said it—”
“Why, truth is truth, I do not think my Lady Isabella ever much
affectioned my young Lord your son; yet he was a sweet youth as one
should see; I am sure, if I had been a Princess—but bless me! I must
attend my Lady Matilda; she will marvel what is become of me.”
“Stay,” cried Manfred; “thou hast not satisfied my question. Hast thou
ever carried any message, any letter?”
“I! good gracious!” cried Bianca; “I carry a letter? I would not to be a
Queen. I hope your Highness thinks, though I am poor, I am honest. Did
your Highness never hear what Count Marsigli offered me, when he came a
wooing to my Lady Matilda?”
“I have not leisure,” said Manfred, “to listen to thy tale. I do not
question thy honesty. But it is thy duty to conceal nothing from me. How long has Isabella been acquainted with Theodore?”
“Nay, there is nothing can escape your Highness!” said Bianca; “not that
I know any thing of the matter. Theodore, to be sure, is a proper young
man, and, as my Lady Matilda says, the very image of good Alfonso. Has
not your Highness remarked it?”
“Yes, yes,—No—thou torturest me,” said Manfred. “Where did they meet? when?”
“Who! my Lady Matilda?” said Bianca. “No, no, not Matilda: Isabella; when did Isabella first become acquainted
with this Theodore!”
“Virgin Mary!” said Bianca, “how should I know?”
“Thou dost know,” said Manfred; “and I must know; I will—”
“Lord! your Highness is not jealous of young Theodore!” said Bianca. “Jealous! no, no. Why should I be jealous? perhaps I mean to unite
them—If I were sure Isabella would have no repugnance.”
“Repugnance! no, I’ll warrant her,” said Bianca; “he is as comely a youth
as ever trod on Christian ground. We are all in love with him; there is
not a soul in the castle but would be rejoiced to have him for our
Prince—I mean, when it shall please heaven to call your Highness to
itself.”
“Indeed!” said Manfred, “has it gone so far! oh! this cursed Friar!—but I
must not lose time—go, Bianca, attend Isabella; but I charge thee, not a
word of what has passed. Find out how she is affected towards Theodore;
bring me good news, and that ring has a companion. Wait at the foot of
the winding staircase: I am going to visit the Marquis, and will talk
further with thee at my return.”
Manfred, after some general conversation, desired Frederic to dismiss the
two Knights, his companions, having to talk with him on urgent affairs. As soon as they were alone, he began in artful guise to sound the Marquis
on the subject of Matilda; and finding him disposed to his wish, he let
drop hints on the difficulties that would attend the celebration of their
marriage, unless—At that instant Bianca burst into the room with a
wildness in her look and gestures that spoke the utmost terror. “Oh! my Lord, my Lord!” cried she; “we are all undone! it is come again! it is come again!”
“What is come again?” cried Manfred amazed. “Oh! the hand! the Giant! the hand!—support me! I am terrified out of my
senses,” cried Bianca. “I will not sleep in the castle to-night. Where
shall I go? my things may come after me to-morrow—would I had been
content to wed Francesco! this comes of ambition!”
“What has terrified thee thus, young woman?” said the Marquis. “Thou art
safe here; be not alarmed.”
“Oh! your Greatness is wonderfully good,” said Bianca, “but I dare
not—no, pray let me go—I had rather leave everything behind me, than stay
another hour under this roof.”
“Go to, thou hast lost thy senses,” said Manfred. “Interrupt us not; we
were communing on important matters—My Lord, this wench is subject to
fits—Come with me, Bianca.”
“Oh! the Saints! No,” said Bianca, “for certain it comes to warn your
Highness; why should it appear to me else? I say my prayers morning and
evening—oh! if your Highness had believed Diego! ’Tis the same hand that
he saw the foot to in the gallery-chamber—Father Jerome has often told us
the prophecy would be out one of these days—‘Bianca,’ said he, ‘mark my
words—’”
“Thou ravest,” said Manfred, in a rage; “be gone, and keep these
fooleries to frighten thy companions.”
“What! my Lord,” cried Bianca, “do you think I have seen nothing? go to
the foot of the great stairs yourself—as I live I saw it.”
“Saw what? tell us, fair maid, what thou hast seen,” said Frederic. “Can your Highness listen,” said Manfred, “to the delirium of a silly
wench, who has heard stories of apparitions until she believes them?”
“This is more than fancy,” said the Marquis; “her terror is too natural
and too strongly impressed to be the work of imagination. Tell us, fair
maiden, what it is has moved thee thus?”
“Yes, my Lord, thank your Greatness,” said Bianca; “I believe I look very
pale; I shall be better when I have recovered myself—I was going to my
Lady Isabella’s chamber, by his Highness’s order—”
“We do not want the circumstances,” interrupted Manfred. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
“Since his
Highness will have it so, proceed; but be brief.”
“Lord! your Highness thwarts one so!” replied Bianca; “I fear my hair—I
am sure I never in my life—well! as I was telling your Greatness, I was
going by his Highness’s order to my Lady Isabella’s chamber; she lies in
the watchet-coloured chamber, on the right hand, one pair of stairs: so
when I came to the great stairs—I was looking on his Highness’s present
here—”
“Grant me patience!” said Manfred, “will this wench never come to the
point? what imports it to the Marquis, that I gave thee a bauble for thy
faithful attendance on my daughter? we want to know what thou sawest.”
“I was going to tell your Highness,” said Bianca, “if you would permit
me. So as I was rubbing the ring—I am sure I had not gone up three
steps, but I heard the rattling of armour; for all the world such a
clatter as Diego says he heard when the Giant turned him about in the
gallery-chamber.”
“What Giant is this, my Lord?” said the Marquis; “is your castle haunted
by giants and goblins?”
“Lord! what, has not your Greatness heard the story of the Giant in the
gallery-chamber?” cried Bianca. “I marvel his Highness has not told you;
mayhap you do not know there is a prophecy—”
“This trifling is intolerable,” interrupted Manfred. “Let us dismiss
this silly wench, my Lord! we have more important affairs to discuss.”
“By your favour,” said Frederic, “these are no trifles. The enormous
sabre I was directed to in the wood, yon casque, its fellow—are these
visions of this poor maiden’s brain?”
“So Jaquez thinks, may it please your Greatness,” said Bianca. “He says
this moon will not be out without our seeing some strange revolution. For my part, I should not be surprised if it was to happen to-morrow;
for, as I was saying, when I heard the clattering of armour, I was all in
a cold sweat. I looked up, and, if your Greatness will believe me, I saw
upon the uppermost banister of the great stairs a hand in armour as big
as big. I thought I should have swooned. I never stopped until I came
hither—would I were well out of this castle. My Lady Matilda told me but
yester-morning that her Highness Hippolita knows something.”
“Thou art an insolent!” cried Manfred. “Lord Marquis, it much misgives
me that this scene is concerted to affront me. Are my own domestics
suborned to spread tales injurious to my honour? Pursue your claim by
manly daring; or let us bury our feuds, as was proposed, by the
intermarriage of our children. But trust me, it ill becomes a Prince of
your bearing to practise on mercenary wenches.”
“I scorn your imputation,” said Frederic. “Until this hour I never set
eyes on this damsel: I have given her no jewel. My Lord, my Lord, your
conscience, your guilt accuses you, and would throw the suspicion on me;
but keep your daughter, and think no more of Isabella. The judgments
already fallen on your house forbid me matching into it.”
Manfred, alarmed at the resolute tone in which Frederic delivered these
words, endeavoured to pacify him. Dismissing Bianca, he made such
submissions to the Marquis, and threw in such artful encomiums on
Matilda, that Frederic was once more staggered. However, as his passion
was of so recent a date, it could not at once surmount the scruples he
had conceived. He had gathered enough from Bianca’s discourse to
persuade him that heaven declared itself against Manfred. The proposed
marriages too removed his claim to a distance; and the principality of
Otranto was a stronger temptation than the contingent reversion of it
with Matilda. Still he would not absolutely recede from his engagements;
but purposing to gain time, he demanded of Manfred if it was true in fact
that Hippolita consented to the divorce. The Prince, transported to find
no other obstacle, and depending on his influence over his wife, assured
the Marquis it was so, and that he might satisfy himself of the truth
from her own mouth. As they were thus discoursing, word was brought that the banquet was
prepared. Manfred conducted Frederic to the great hall, where they were
received by Hippolita and the young Princesses. Manfred placed the
Marquis next to Matilda, and seated himself between his wife and
Isabella. Hippolita comported herself with an easy gravity; but the
young ladies were silent and melancholy. Manfred, who was determined to
pursue his point with the Marquis in the remainder of the evening, pushed
on the feast until it waxed late; affecting unrestrained gaiety, and
plying Frederic with repeated goblets of wine. The latter, more upon his
guard than Manfred wished, declined his frequent challenges, on pretence
of his late loss of blood; while the Prince, to raise his own disordered
spirits, and to counterfeit unconcern, indulged himself in plentiful
draughts, though not to the intoxication of his senses. The evening being far advanced, the banquet concluded. Manfred would
have withdrawn with Frederic; but the latter pleading weakness and want
of repose, retired to his chamber, gallantly telling the Prince that his
daughter should amuse his Highness until himself could attend him. Manfred accepted the party, and to the no small grief of Isabella,
accompanied her to her apartment. Matilda waited on her mother to enjoy
the freshness of the evening on the ramparts of the castle. Soon as the company were dispersed their several ways, Frederic, quitting
his chamber, inquired if Hippolita was alone, and was told by one of her
attendants, who had not noticed her going forth, that at that hour she
generally withdrew to her oratory, where he probably would find her. The
Marquis, during the repast, had beheld Matilda with increase of passion. He now wished to find Hippolita in the disposition her Lord had promised. The portents that had alarmed him were forgotten in his desires. Stealing softly and unobserved to the apartment of Hippolita, he entered
it with a resolution to encourage her acquiescence to the divorce, having
perceived that Manfred was resolved to make the possession of Isabella an
unalterable condition, before he would grant Matilda to his wishes. The Marquis was not surprised at the silence that reigned in the
Princess’s apartment. Concluding her, as he had been advertised, in her
oratory, he passed on. The door was ajar; the evening gloomy and
overcast. Pushing open the door gently, he saw a person kneeling before
the altar. As he approached nearer, it seemed not a woman, but one in a
long woollen weed, whose back was towards him. The person seemed
absorbed in prayer. The Marquis was about to return, when the figure,
rising, stood some moments fixed in meditation, without regarding him. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
The Marquis, expecting the holy person to come forth, and meaning to
excuse his uncivil interruption, said,
“Reverend Father, I sought the Lady Hippolita.”
“Hippolita!” replied a hollow voice; “camest thou to this castle to seek
Hippolita?” and then the figure, turning slowly round, discovered to
Frederic the fleshless jaws and empty sockets of a skeleton, wrapt in a
hermit’s cowl. “Angels of grace protect me!” cried Frederic, recoiling. “Deserve their protection!” said the Spectre. Frederic, falling on his
knees, adjured the phantom to take pity on him. “Dost thou not remember me?” said the apparition. “Remember the wood of
Joppa!”
“Art thou that holy hermit?” cried Frederic, trembling. “Can I do aught
for thy eternal peace?”
“Wast thou delivered from bondage,” said the spectre, “to pursue carnal
delights? Hast thou forgotten the buried sabre, and the behest of Heaven
engraven on it?”
“I have not, I have not,” said Frederic; “but say, blest spirit, what is
thy errand to me? What remains to be done?”
“To forget Matilda!” said the apparition; and vanished. Frederic’s blood froze in his veins. For some minutes he remained
motionless. Then falling prostrate on his face before the altar, he
besought the intercession of every saint for pardon. A flood of tears
succeeded to this transport; and the image of the beauteous Matilda
rushing in spite of him on his thoughts, he lay on the ground in a
conflict of penitence and passion. Ere he could recover from this agony
of his spirits, the Princess Hippolita with a taper in her hand entered
the oratory alone. Seeing a man without motion on the floor, she gave a
shriek, concluding him dead. Her fright brought Frederic to himself. Rising suddenly, his face bedewed with tears, he would have rushed from
her presence; but Hippolita stopping him, conjured him in the most
plaintive accents to explain the cause of his disorder, and by what
strange chance she had found him there in that posture. “Ah, virtuous Princess!” said the Marquis, penetrated with grief, and
stopped. “For the love of Heaven, my Lord,” said Hippolita, “disclose the cause of
this transport! What mean these doleful sounds, this alarming
exclamation on my name? What woes has heaven still in store for the
wretched Hippolita? Yet silent! By every pitying angel, I adjure thee,
noble Prince,” continued she, falling at his feet, “to disclose the
purport of what lies at thy heart. I see thou feelest for me; thou
feelest the sharp pangs that thou inflictest—speak, for pity! Does aught
thou knowest concern my child?”
“I cannot speak,” cried Frederic, bursting from her. “Oh, Matilda!”
Quitting the Princess thus abruptly, he hastened to his own apartment. At the door of it he was accosted by Manfred, who flushed by wine and
love had come to seek him, and to propose to waste some hours of the
night in music and revelling. Frederic, offended at an invitation so
dissonant from the mood of his soul, pushed him rudely aside, and
entering his chamber, flung the door intemperately against Manfred, and
bolted it inwards. The haughty Prince, enraged at this unaccountable
behaviour, withdrew in a frame of mind capable of the most fatal
excesses. As he crossed the court, he was met by the domestic whom he
had planted at the convent as a spy on Jerome and Theodore. This man,
almost breathless with the haste he had made, informed his Lord that
Theodore, and some lady from the castle were, at that instant, in private
conference at the tomb of Alfonso in St. Nicholas’s church. He had
dogged Theodore thither, but the gloominess of the night had prevented
his discovering who the woman was. Manfred, whose spirits were inflamed, and whom Isabella had driven from
her on his urging his passion with too little reserve, did not doubt but
the inquietude she had expressed had been occasioned by her impatience to
meet Theodore. Provoked by this conjecture, and enraged at her father,
he hastened secretly to the great church. Gliding softly between the
aisles, and guided by an imperfect gleam of moonshine that shone faintly
through the illuminated windows, he stole towards the tomb of Alfonso, to
which he was directed by indistinct whispers of the persons he sought. The first sounds he could distinguish were—
“Does it, alas! depend on me? Manfred will never permit our union.”
“No, this shall prevent it!” cried the tyrant, drawing his dagger, and
plunging it over her shoulder into the bosom of the person that spoke. “Ah, me, I am slain!” cried Matilda, sinking. “Good heaven, receive my
soul!”
“Savage, inhuman monster, what hast thou done!” cried Theodore, rushing
on him, and wrenching his dagger from him. “Stop, stop thy impious hand!” cried Matilda; “it is my father!”
Manfred, waking as from a trance, beat his breast, twisted his hands in
his locks, and endeavoured to recover his dagger from Theodore to
despatch himself. Theodore, scarce less distracted, and only mastering
the transports of his grief to assist Matilda, had now by his cries drawn
some of the monks to his aid. While part of them endeavoured, in concert
with the afflicted Theodore, to stop the blood of the dying Princess, the
rest prevented Manfred from laying violent hands on himself. Matilda, resigning herself patiently to her fate, acknowledged with looks
of grateful love the zeal of Theodore. Yet oft as her faintness would
permit her speech its way, she begged the assistants to comfort her
father. Jerome, by this time, had learnt the fatal news, and reached the
church. His looks seemed to reproach Theodore, but turning to Manfred,
he said,
“Now, tyrant! behold the completion of woe fulfilled on thy impious and
devoted head! The blood of Alfonso cried to heaven for vengeance; and
heaven has permitted its altar to be polluted by assassination, that thou
mightest shed thy own blood at the foot of that Prince’s sepulchre!”
“Cruel man!” cried Matilda, “to aggravate the woes of a parent; may
heaven bless my father, and forgive him as I do! My Lord, my gracious
Sire, dost thou forgive thy child? Indeed, I came not hither to meet
Theodore. I found him praying at this tomb, whither my mother sent me to
intercede for thee, for her—dearest father, bless your child, and say you
forgive her.”
“Forgive thee! Murderous monster!” cried Manfred, “can assassins
forgive? I took thee for Isabella; but heaven directed my bloody hand to
the heart of my child. Oh, Matilda!—I cannot utter it—canst thou forgive
the blindness of my rage?”
“I can, I do; and may heaven confirm it!” said Matilda; “but while I have
life to ask it—oh! my mother! what will she feel? Will you comfort her,
my Lord? Will you not put her away? Indeed she loves you! Oh, I am
faint! bear me to the castle. Can I live to have her close my eyes?”
Theodore and the monks besought her earnestly to suffer herself to be
borne into the convent; but her instances were so pressing to be carried
to the castle, that placing her on a litter, they conveyed her thither as
she requested. | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
Theodore, supporting her head with his arm, and hanging
over her in an agony of despairing love, still endeavoured to inspire her
with hopes of life. Jerome, on the other side, comforted her with
discourses of heaven, and holding a crucifix before her, which she bathed
with innocent tears, prepared her for her passage to immortality. Manfred, plunged in the deepest affliction, followed the litter in
despair. Ere they reached the castle, Hippolita, informed of the dreadful
catastrophe, had flown to meet her murdered child; but when she saw the
afflicted procession, the mightiness of her grief deprived her of her
senses, and she fell lifeless to the earth in a swoon. Isabella and
Frederic, who attended her, were overwhelmed in almost equal sorrow. Matilda alone seemed insensible to her own situation: every thought was
lost in tenderness for her mother. Ordering the litter to stop, as soon as Hippolita was brought to herself,
she asked for her father. He approached, unable to speak. Matilda,
seizing his hand and her mother’s, locked them in her own, and then
clasped them to her heart. Manfred could not support this act of
pathetic piety. He dashed himself on the ground, and cursed the day he
was born. Isabella, apprehensive that these struggles of passion were
more than Matilda could support, took upon herself to order Manfred to be
borne to his apartment, while she caused Matilda to be conveyed to the
nearest chamber. Hippolita, scarce more alive than her daughter, was
regardless of everything but her; but when the tender Isabella’s care
would have likewise removed her, while the surgeons examined Matilda’s
wound, she cried,
“Remove me! never, never! I lived but in her, and will expire with her.”
Matilda raised her eyes at her mother’s voice, but closed them again
without speaking. Her sinking pulse and the damp coldness of her hand
soon dispelled all hopes of recovery. Theodore followed the surgeons
into the outer chamber, and heard them pronounce the fatal sentence with
a transport equal to frenzy. “Since she cannot live mine,” cried he, “at least she shall be mine in
death! Father! Jerome! will you not join our hands?” cried he to the
Friar, who, with the Marquis, had accompanied the surgeons. “What means thy distracted rashness?” said Jerome. “Is this an hour for
marriage?”
“It is, it is,” cried Theodore. “Alas! there is no other!”
“Young man, thou art too unadvised,” said Frederic. “Dost thou think we
are to listen to thy fond transports in this hour of fate? What
pretensions hast thou to the Princess?”
“Those of a Prince,” said Theodore; “of the sovereign of Otranto. This
reverend man, my father, has informed me who I am.”
“Thou ravest,” said the Marquis. “There is no Prince of Otranto but
myself, now Manfred, by murder, by sacrilegious murder, has forfeited all
pretensions.”
“My Lord,” said Jerome, assuming an air of command, “he tells you true. It was not my purpose the secret should have been divulged so soon, but
fate presses onward to its work. What his hot-headed passion has
revealed, my tongue confirms. Know, Prince, that when Alfonso set sail
for the Holy Land—”
“Is this a season for explanations?” cried Theodore. “Father, come and
unite me to the Princess; she shall be mine! In every other thing I will
dutifully obey you. My life! my adored Matilda!” continued Theodore,
rushing back into the inner chamber, “will you not be mine? Will you not
bless your—”
Isabella made signs to him to be silent, apprehending the Princess was
near her end. “What, is she dead?” cried Theodore; “is it possible!”
The violence of his exclamations brought Matilda to herself. Lifting up
her eyes, she looked round for her mother. “Life of my soul, I am here!” cried Hippolita; “think not I will quit
thee!”
“Oh! you are too good,” said Matilda. “But weep not for me, my mother! I am going where sorrow never dwells—Isabella, thou hast loved me;
wouldst thou not supply my fondness to this dear, dear woman? Indeed I
am faint!”
“Oh! my child! my child!” said Hippolita in a flood of tears, “can I not
withhold thee a moment?”
“It will not be,” said Matilda; “commend me to heaven—Where is my father? forgive him, dearest mother—forgive him my death; it was an error. Oh! I had forgotten—dearest mother, I vowed never to see Theodore
more—perhaps that has drawn down this calamity—but it was not
intentional—can you pardon me?”
“Oh! wound not my agonising soul!” said Hippolita; “thou never couldst
offend me—Alas! she faints! help! help!”
“I would say something more,” said Matilda, struggling, “but it cannot
be—Isabella—Theodore—for my sake—Oh!—” she expired. Isabella and her women tore Hippolita from the corse; but Theodore
threatened destruction to all who attempted to remove him from it. He
printed a thousand kisses on her clay-cold hands, and uttered every
expression that despairing love could dictate. Isabella, in the meantime, was accompanying the afflicted Hippolita to
her apartment; but, in the middle of the court, they were met by Manfred,
who, distracted with his own thoughts, and anxious once more to behold
his daughter, was advancing to the chamber where she lay. As the moon
was now at its height, he read in the countenances of this unhappy
company the event he dreaded. “What! is she dead?” cried he in wild confusion. A clap of thunder at
that instant shook the castle to its foundations; the earth rocked, and
the clank of more than mortal armour was heard behind. Frederic and
Jerome thought the last day was at hand. The latter, forcing Theodore
along with them, rushed into the court. The moment Theodore appeared,
the walls of the castle behind Manfred were thrown down with a mighty
force, and the form of Alfonso, dilated to an immense magnitude, appeared
in the centre of the ruins. “Behold in Theodore the true heir of Alfonso!” said the vision: And
having pronounced those words, accompanied by a clap of thunder, it
ascended solemnly towards heaven, where the clouds parting asunder, the
form of St. Nicholas was seen, and receiving Alfonso’s shade, they were
soon wrapt from mortal eyes in a blaze of glory. The beholders fell prostrate on their faces, acknowledging the divine
will. The first that broke silence was Hippolita. “My Lord,” said she to the desponding Manfred, “behold the vanity of
human greatness! Conrad is gone! Matilda is no more! In Theodore we
view the true Prince of Otranto. By what miracle he is so I know
not—suffice it to us, our doom is pronounced! shall we not, can we but
dedicate the few deplorable hours we have to live, in deprecating the
further wrath of heaven? heaven ejects us—whither can we fly, but to yon
holy cells that yet offer us a retreat.”
“Thou guiltless but unhappy woman! unhappy by my crimes!” replied
Manfred, “my heart at last is open to thy devout admonitions. Oh! could—but it cannot be—ye are lost in wonder—let me at last do justice on
myself! | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
To heap shame on my own head is all the satisfaction I have left
to offer to offended heaven. My story has drawn down these judgments:
Let my confession atone—but, ah! what can atone for usurpation and a
murdered child? a child murdered in a consecrated place? List, sirs, and
may this bloody record be a warning to future tyrants!”
“Alfonso, ye all know, died in the Holy Land—ye would interrupt me; ye
would say he came not fairly to his end—it is most true—why else this
bitter cup which Manfred must drink to the dregs. Ricardo, my
grandfather, was his chamberlain—I would draw a veil over my ancestor’s
crimes—but it is in vain! Alfonso died by poison. A fictitious will
declared Ricardo his heir. His crimes pursued him—yet he lost no Conrad,
no Matilda! I pay the price of usurpation for all! A storm overtook
him. Haunted by his guilt he vowed to St. Nicholas to found a church and
two convents, if he lived to reach Otranto. The sacrifice was accepted:
the saint appeared to him in a dream, and promised that Ricardo’s
posterity should reign in Otranto until the rightful owner should be
grown too large to inhabit the castle, and as long as issue male from
Ricardo’s loins should remain to enjoy it—alas! alas! nor male nor
female, except myself, remains of all his wretched race! I have done—the
woes of these three days speak the rest. How this young man can be
Alfonso’s heir I know not—yet I do not doubt it. His are these
dominions; I resign them—yet I knew not Alfonso had an heir—I question
not the will of heaven—poverty and prayer must fill up the woeful space,
until Manfred shall be summoned to Ricardo.”
“What remains is my part to declare,” said Jerome. “When Alfonso set
sail for the Holy Land he was driven by a storm to the coast of Sicily. The other vessel, which bore Ricardo and his train, as your Lordship must
have heard, was separated from him.”
“It is most true,” said Manfred; “and the title you give me is more than
an outcast can claim—well! be it so—proceed.”
Jerome blushed, and continued. “For three months Lord Alfonso was
wind-bound in Sicily. There he became enamoured of a fair virgin named
Victoria. He was too pious to tempt her to forbidden pleasures. They
were married. Yet deeming this amour incongruous with the holy vow of
arms by which he was bound, he determined to conceal their nuptials until
his return from the Crusade, when he purposed to seek and acknowledge her
for his lawful wife. He left her pregnant. During his absence she was
delivered of a daughter. But scarce had she felt a mother’s pangs ere
she heard the fatal rumour of her Lord’s death, and the succession of
Ricardo. What could a friendless, helpless woman do? Would her
testimony avail?—yet, my lord, I have an authentic writing—”
“It needs not,” said Manfred; “the horrors of these days, the vision we
have but now seen, all corroborate thy evidence beyond a thousand
parchments. Matilda’s death and my expulsion—”
“Be composed, my Lord,” said Hippolita; “this holy man did not mean to
recall your griefs.” Jerome proceeded. “I shall not dwell on what is needless. The daughter of which Victoria
was delivered, was at her maturity bestowed in marriage on me. Victoria
died; and the secret remained locked in my breast. Theodore’s narrative
has told the rest.”
The Friar ceased. The disconsolate company retired to the remaining part
of the castle. In the morning Manfred signed his abdication of the
principality, with the approbation of Hippolita, and each took on them
the habit of religion in the neighbouring convents. Frederic offered his
daughter to the new Prince, which Hippolita’s tenderness for Isabella
concurred to promote. But Theodore’s grief was too fresh to admit the
thought of another love; and it was not until after frequent discourses
with Isabella of his dear Matilda, that he was persuaded he could know no
happiness but in the society of one with whom he could for ever indulge | Walpole, Horace - The Castle of Otranto |
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
The Doors of Death
By ARTHUR B. WALTERMIRE
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales October
1936. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.] [Sidenote: _A strange and curious story is this, about a banker whose
only fear was that he might be buried alive, like his grandfather before
him_]
A heavy stillness hung about the great halls and richly furnished rooms
of Judson McMasters' residence, and even seemed to extend out over the
velvet lawns, the shrub-lined walks and sun-blotched reaches under the
lacy elms and somber maples. Biggs glided about the sick-chamber like a specter, apparently striving
to keep busy, while he cast countless furtive, uneasy glances at the
heavy figure under the white sheets. An odor of drugs and fever tainted
the air, and a small walnut table near the flushed sleeper was laden
with the familiar prescription bottle, tumbler and box of powders. On
the wall behind the table, near the head of the bed, hung a small
oil-painting of Napoleon. The sleeper stirred restlessly, raised himself painfully and slowly, and
attempted to seek fleeting comfort in a new position. At the first
movement Biggs was a shadow at the bedside, deftly manipulating the
coverings and gently aiding the sick man with a tenderness born of long
service and deep affection. As the massive gray head sank into the
fluffed pillow the tired eyes opened, lighted by a faint glint of
thankfulness. Then they closed again and the once powerful body relaxed. With a pitiful, wistful expression on his aged face, the faithful Biggs
stood helplessly peering at the sick man until hot tears began to course
down his furrowed cheeks, and he turned hastily away. "Biggs!" The voice, still strong and commanding, cut the semi-gloom like a knife. Biggs, who was about to tuck the heavy curtains still more securely over
the windows, whirled as though he had touched a live wire, and in a
flash was across the great room and beside the bed. "Did you call, sir?" His voice quavered. "No"--a faint twinkle lighted the sick man's eyes--"I just spoke." "Ah, now sir," cried the overjoyed Biggs, "you are better, sir." "Biggs, I want some air and sunshine." "But the doctor, sir----"
"Drat the doctor! If I'm going to pass out I want to see where I'm
going." "Oh, but sir," expostulated the old servant, as he parted the curtains
and partially opened a casement window, "I wish you wouldn't say that,
sir." "I believe in facing a situation squarely, Biggs. My father and
grandfather died from this family malady, and I guess I'm headed over
the same route." "Please, sir," entreated Biggs. "Biggs, I want to ask you a question." "Yes, sir?" "Are you a Christian?" "I try to be, sir." "Do you believe in death?" Biggs was thoroughly startled and confused. "Why--a--we all have to die, sometime, sir," he answered haltingly, not
knowing what else to say. "But do we actually die?" insisted the sufferer. "Well, I hope--not yet," ventured the old servant. "The doctor said----"
"Forget the doctor," interposed McMasters. "Biggs, you have been in our
service since I was a lad, haven't you?" Tears welled into the servant's eyes, and his voice faltered. "Fifty-six years, come next November," he answered. "Well, let me tell you something, that even in those fifty-six years you
never learned, Biggs. My grandfather was buried alive!" "Oh, sir! Impossible!" cried Biggs, in horror. "Absolutely," asserted the banker. "Why--are you--how do you know, sir?" in a hoarse whisper. "My father built a family mausoleum in the far corner of this estate,
didn't he?" "Yes, sir--he hated burial in the earth, sir, after reading a poem of
Edgar Allan Poe's, sir!" "What poem was that, Biggs?" "I don't recall the name of it, but I remember the line," faltered
Biggs. "What was it?" "Oh, sir," cried the old man, "let's talk about something cheerful." "Not until we're through with this discussion, Hiram." * * * * *
The sound of his given name restored Biggs somewhat, for the banker
resorted to it only on occasions when he shared his deepest confidences
with his old houseman. "Well, the line goes, 'Soft may the worms about him creep,' sir." A slight shudder seemed to run through McMasters' body. Then after a
tomb-like silence, "Good reason for building the mausoleum." "Yes, sir, I think so, sir." "Well," with an apparent effort, "when they exhumed my grandfather's
remains to place them in the new vault, the casket was opened, and----"
"Oh, sir," cried Biggs, throwing out a trembling, expostulating hand,
but the banker went on, relentlessly.
" ----the body was turned over, on its side, with the left knee drawn up
part-way." "That's the way he always slept--in life." Biggs' voice was a hollow
whisper. "And that's the reason my father, after building himself a mausoleum,
insisted that his body be cremated," said McMasters. "He took no
chances." Biggs' horrified eyes traveled dully to the massive urn over the great
fireplace and rested there, fascinated. "Hiram, where is heaven?" Biggs' eyes flitted back to rest in surprize upon the questioner. "Why, up there, sir," pointing toward the ceiling. "Do you believe that the earth rotates on its axis?" "That's what I was taught in school, sir." "If that hypothesis is true, we are rolling through space at the rate of
about sixteen miles a minute," figured the banker. "Now you say heaven
is up there." "Yes, sir." "Biggs, what time is it?" The servant glanced at the great clock in the corner. "Ah, it's twelve o'clock, sir, and time for your medicine," in a voice
full of relief. "Never mind the drugs," commanded McMasters, "until we finish our
problem in higher mathematics. Now, if I ask you where heaven is at
midnight, which will be twelve hours from now, where will you point,"
triumphantly. "Why, up there," replied the bewildered servant, again indicating the
ceiling. "Then," cried McMasters, "you will be pointing directly opposite from
the place you indicated a moment ago; for by midnight the earth will
have turned approximately upside down. Do you get my point?" "Yes, sir," replied poor Biggs, thoroughly befuddled. "Then where will heaven be at six o'clock this evening?" fairly shouted
the sick man. "Out there," replied the servant, hopelessly, pointing toward the
window. "And where will heaven be at six o'clock in the morning?" "Over there." And Biggs pointed a trembling finger at the fireplace. Then, "Oh, sir, let's not--the doctor----"
"Hang the doctor," interrupted McMasters testily. "I've been thinking
this thing over, and I've got to talk about it to someone." "But don't you believe in a hereafter?" queried Biggs, a horrible note
of fear in his pitiful voice. For a moment the banker was silent; the massive clock ticked solemnly
on. | Waltermire, Arthur B. - The Doors of Death |
A coal toppled with a sputter and flare in the fireplace. "Yes, Hiram," in a thoughtful voice, "I suppose I do." "I'm glad to hear you say that," cried Biggs in very evident relief. "Ah, if you could but tell me," continued the banker, "from whence we
come, and whither we go?" "If I knew, sir, I'd be equal with the Creator," answered Biggs with
reverence. "That's well said, Hiram, but it doesn't satisfy me. I've made my place
in the world by getting to the root of things. Ah, if I could only get a
peek behind the curtain, before I go--back-stage, you know--mayhap I
would not be afraid to die," and his voice fell almost to a whisper. "The Great Director does not permit the audience behind the footlights,
unless he calls them," answered Biggs whimsically, the ghost of a smile
lighting up his troubled features. "Another thing, Biggs, do you believe those stories about Jonah, and
Lazarus, and the fellow they let down through a hole in the roof to be
healed?" "I do, sir," with conviction. "Do you understand how it was done?" testily. "Of course not, sir, being only a human." "Then tell me, Hiram, when you cannot see through it, how can you
swallow all this theology?" "My faith, sir," answered Biggs, simply, raising his eyes with
reverence. At this, a quizzical smile came over the sick man's face. "In looking up, Hiram, don't forget, since it is twelve-thirty, that we
have swung around four hundred and eighty miles from the spot you
originally designated as the location of the Pearly Gates." "Oh, sir, I beg of you," remonstrated the servant, "I cannot bear to
have you jest on such a--why, master!" he broke off with a little cry,
rushing to his bedside. The quizzical smile on the banker's face had suddenly faded, and his
head had fallen feebly back upon the pillow. "Oh, why did he waste his strength so?" cried Biggs, piteously, as with
trembling hands and tear-blurred eyes he searched the little table for
the smelling-salts. After a few breaths, the patient sighed and opened his eyes wearily. "My medicine, Hiram, and then I must rest." * * * * *
At midnight, Biggs, dozing in a big chair by the fire, was aroused by a
voice from the sick bed. "Hiram." "Yes, sir," scurrying to turn on a subdued light. "Where is heaven now?" Noting the wan flicker of a smile, the old servant pointed solemnly
downward. "You are a bright pupil," came in a scarcely audible voice. "Thank you, sir." "Do you know, Biggs, I wish I had led a different--a better life." "You have been a good master, sir. You have been kind, you have given
liberally to charity," Biggs defended him. "Yes," cynically, "I have given liberally to charity. But it has been no
sacrifice." "You have been a pillar in the church," ventured Biggs. "Yes," bitterly, "a stone pillar. I have paid handsomely for my pew, and
slept peacefully through the sermons. I have bought baskets of food for
the poor at Thanksgiving and Christmas time, only to let others reap the
happiness of giving them away. I could have had so much joy out of
Christmas, if I would. I could have been a jolly, rosy-cheeked Santa
Claus and gone to a hundred homes, my arms loaded with gifts." "True, sir, but you made that joy possible for others." "When I should have known the thrill of it myself. I have not really
lived, Hiram. To draw the sweets truly out of life, one must humble
himself and serve his fellow men. Yes, the scales have fallen from my
eyes, Hiram. But it is too late, 'the spirit is willing but the flesh is
weak'." "It doesn't seem right, sir," said Biggs after a pause. "What's that, Hiram?" "Why, sir, that you should be stricken down in the prime of life, just
at a time when you could mean so much to others, while I, old and
useless, am permitted to live on. But I am not finding fault with
Providence, sir," Biggs hastened to say; "I just can't find the meaning
of the riddle, sir." "Probably I've had my chance and fumbled it, Biggs." "Even so, sir, God is not vindictive, according to my ideas. There
surely is some other solution. I'm still going to pray that He will take
me in your stead, even if a miracle must be performed." "So you have faith in your prayers, do you, Biggs?" "Yes, sir, if they are unselfish prayers." "That brand is rather scarce, I take it," answered McMasters, but his
tone was reflective rather than sarcastic. "Oh, sir, I wish you would pray as I do. God would surely understand." "Rather a queer request, Hiram. If my life depends upon your death no
prayer shall ever pass my lips." "But, sir, I'm an old----"
"However," interrupted McMasters, "I shall pray that if my life is
spared in any other fashion, I will make full amends for my years of
indifference and neglect. And, Hiram, no one knows how much I truly seek
this divine dispensation. But I have always scoffed at death-bed
confessions, and so my heart grows cold, for I have no right to
ask--now." Again, wearily, "No right--now." "Ah, master, God is plenteous in mercy. If you but have the faith, sir,
it shall make you whole." "Very good, had I lived as you have lived, Biggs." Then, after a pause,
"Still, the cause is worthy, my heart is right and I shall approach the
Throne. May God be merciful unto me, a sinner." "I hope it is not too late yet," faltered Biggs. "Oh, if God would only
call me in your stead, that you might still do the good work that you
find it in your heart to do, how gladly would I go." A deep sigh was his only answer. * * * * *
A long silence was finally broken by the sick man. But when he spoke,
his voice was so strange and uncanny that the servant hastened close and
peered anxiously into the fever-flushed face of the sufferer. "Hiram--I must tell you--a secret," came in a laborious, almost
sepulchral, whisper. Biggs came closer. "Bring a chair and sit down. I must talk to you." As the old servant again leaned forward, the sufferer hesitated; then
with an obvious effort he began. "Hiram, I am going to give you some instructions which you must obey to
the letter. Will you promise to keep them?" "I swear it, sir," with great earnestness. "Good! Now, if this fever seals my lips and the doctor pronounces me
dead----"
"Please, sir," Biggs broke in, tears streaming down his furrowed cheeks,
but his master continued in the same subdued voice, "Whatever happens, I
am not to be embalmed--do you hear me?--not embalmed, but just laid away
as I am now." "Yes, sir," in a choked voice, which fully betrayed the breaking heart
behind it. "And now, Hiram, the rest of the secret." He paused and beckoned Biggs
to lean closer. "In my vault--in the mausoleum, I have had an electric button installed. That button connects with a silver bell. Lift up that small picture of
Napoleon, there upon the wall." His hands trembling as with the palsy, Biggs reached out and lifted
aside the picture hanging near the head of the bed, and there revealed
the silver bell, fitted into a small aperture in the wall. | Waltermire, Arthur B. - The Doors of Death |
Then, with a
sob, he fell back into his chair. "Hiram"--in a whisper--"after they bury me, you are to sleep in this
bed." With a cry, the old man threw out a horrified, expostulating hand. Catching it feverishly, the banker half raised himself in bed. "Don't you understand?" he cried fiercely. "I may not be dead after all. Remember grandfather! And Biggs--if that bell rings, get help--quick!" Suddenly releasing his hold, McMasters fell back limply among the
pillows. * * * * *
All through the long night the faithful Biggs maintained a sleepless
vigil, but the banker lay as immovable as a stone. When the rosy-cheeked
dawn came peeping audaciously through the casements, Biggs drew the
heavy curtains tightly shut once more. Not until the doctor's motor whirled away did the patient rouse from his
lethargy. Apparently strengthened by his deep stupor he spoke, and Biggs stood
instantly beside him. "What did the doctor say?" Biggs hesitated. "Out with it, I'm no chicken-hearted weakling." "Nothing much," admitted Biggs, sadly. "He only shook his head very
gravely." "He doesn't understand this family malady any more than the old quack
who allowed my grandfather to be buried alive," said McMasters almost
fiercely. Biggs shuddered and put a trembling hand to his eyes. "What ails me, Biggs?" almost plaintively. "No one knows. This fever has
baffled the scientists for years. When you fall into a comatose
condition they call it suspended animation. That's the best thing they
do--find names for diseases. My family doctor doesn't have any more of
an idea about this malady than you or I. The average physician is just a
guesser. He guesses you have a fever and prescribes a remedy, hoping
that it will hit the spot. If it doesn't he looks wise, wags his
head--and tries something else on you. Maybe it works and maybe it
doesn't. The only thing my guesser is absolutely sure of is that if I
live or if I die, he will collect a princely fee for his services." Biggs remained statuesque during the pause. "Gad," McMasters broke out again testily, "if I fiddled around in my
business like that I'd be a pauper in a month." "But the doctor says you're coming on," ventured Biggs. "Sure he does," answered the banker with a sneer. "That's his stock in
trade. I know that line of palaver. Secretly, he knows I am as liable to
be dead as alive when he comes again." "Oh, sir, you aren't going to die!" "That's what I'm afraid of, Biggs. But they'll call me dead and go ahead
and embalm me and make sure of it." "Oh, sir, I wish----"
"Now remember, Biggs," broke in the sick man, "shoot the first
undertaker that tries to put that mummy stuff in my veins." "I understand perfectly, sir," answered Biggs, fearful lest the other's
excitement might again give him a turn for the worse. "I know I'm apparently going to pass away. My father and grandfather
both had this cussed virus in their veins, and I don't believe either of
them was dead when he was pronounced so!" "Well, if by any chance--that is, if you," began Biggs desperately, "if
you are apparently--dead--why not have them keep your body here in the
house for a time?" "Convention, formality, custom, hide-bound law!" the banker fairly
frothed. "The health authorities would come here with an army and see
that I was buried. No, Biggs, I've got a fine crypt out there, all quiet
and secure, good ventilation, electric lights, like a pullman berth--and
a push-button. That precludes all notoriety. It's secret and safe. The
electrician who installed the apparatus died four years ago. So you and
I, alone, possess this knowledge." "Don't you think someone else should know of it too? Your attorney,
or----"
"No, Biggs. If I really am dead I don't want anyone to write up my
eccentricities for some Sunday magazine sheet. And if I do come back,
then it will be time to tell the gaping public about my cleverness." "I wish you weren't so--so cold-blooded about it all, sir." "I have always hit straight from the shoulder, Hiram, and I'm facing
this death business as I'd face any other proposition. I'm not ready to
cash in, and if I can cheat the doctors, undertakers, lawyers, heirs,
and chief mourners for a few more years, I'm going to do it. And don't
forget poor old granddad. He might have been up and about yet had he but
used my scheme." * * * * *
Biggs turned away, sick at heart. It was too terrible beyond words. To
him his religion was as essential as daily bread. Death was the
culmination of cherished belief and constant prayer. As his years
declined he had faced the inevitable day with simple faith that when the
summons came he would go gladly, like him "who wraps the drapery of his
couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams." With throbbing heart
he listened for another torrent of words that would still further stab
his sensitive soul; for he had loved and revered his master from his
youth up. But no words came. He wheeled about. The massive head had fallen limply
among the pillows. Pallid lips were trying to form sentences without
result. Then the great body seemed to subside immeasurably deeper into
the covers and a death-like stillness fell upon the room. Intuitively feeling that his master was worse than at any previous
relapse, Biggs made every effort to revive him, gently at first, and
then by vigorously shaking and calling to him in a heart-broken, piteous
voice. But to no avail. The heavy figure looked pallid and corpse-like
under the snowy sheets. Long hours dragged by, and still the lonely old servant sat mutely
beside the bed, only aroused, at last, by the peremptory, measured call
of the telephone bell. "Yes," said Biggs in a quavering voice. "Oh yes, Doctor Meredith,
Master's resting easy. Don't think you'll need to come until tomorrow." "I'll keep them away as long as I can," he muttered, as he slipped back
to his vigil. "God grant--maybe he'll come back--and take up the work of
the Master, so long delayed. Oh God! If Thou wouldst only take me in his
stead!" Sleeping fitfully, Biggs sat dumbly through an interminable night, but
the new day brought no reassuring sign from the inert form. The
stillness was appalling. The other servants were quartered in a distant
part of the mansion and only came when summoned. Again Biggs assured the
physician that he could gain nothing by calling, and another awful night
found him, ashen and distraught, at the bedside. Sometime in the still
watches he swooned and kindly nature patched up his shredded nerves,
before consciousness once more aroused him. But the strain was more than
he could bear. So when the anxious specialist came, unbidden, he found a
shattered old watchman who broke down completely and babbled forth the
whole mysterious tale, concealing nothing but the secret of the tomb. | Waltermire, Arthur B. - The Doors of Death |
In a coffin previously made to order, they laid the unembalmed remains
of Judson McMasters in the family mausoleum, and the world which had
felt his masterful presence for so many years paused long enough to lay
a costly tribute on his bier and then went smoothly on its way. Not so with the faithful Biggs. Ensconced in his master's bedroom, he
nightly tossed in troubled sleep, filled with the jangling of
innumerable electric bells. And when--on the tenth night, after he had
been somewhat reassured that all was well--he was suddenly awakened by a
mad, incessant ringing from the hidden alarm, a deathly weakness
overcame him and it was some time before he was able to drag his palsied
body from the bed. With fumbling, clumsy fingers he tried to hasten, but
it was many minutes before he tottered, half dressed, out of the room. And as he did so, his heart almost stood still, then mounted to his
throat as if to choke him. "Biggs!" --a voice--McMaster's voice was calling. He staggered to the head of the wide, massive stairway and looked down. There stood the banker, pale, emaciated, but smiling. And then, as from an endless distance, came more words:
"I forgot to tell you that I had a trap-door in the end of the casket. When you didn't answer the bell, I found I could come alone." With an inarticulate cry, Biggs stretched out his trembling arms. "My Master, I am coming now." Then he swayed, stumbled, clutched feebly at the rail and plunged
headlong to the foot of the stairs, a crumpled, lifeless form. | Waltermire, Arthur B. - The Doors of Death |
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE DARK OTHER
By Stanley G. Weinbaum
_Fantasy Publishing Co., Inc._
LOS ANGELES 1950
Copyright 1950 by Fantasy Publishing Co., Inc. Manufactured in U. S. A. [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] _Other Books by Stanley G. Weinbaum_
DAWN OF FLAME
THE NEW ADAM
THE BLACK FLAME
A MARTIAN ODYSSEY
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
1. PURE HORROR 9
2. SCIENCE OF MIND 17
3. PSYCHIATRICS OF GENIUS 25
4. THE TRANSFIGURATION 33
5. A FANTASY OF FEAR 42
6. A QUESTION OF SCIENCE 50
7. THE RED EYES RETURN 58
8. GATEWAY TO EVIL 65
9. DESCENT INTO AVERNUS 73
10. RESCUE FROM ABADDON 81
11. WRECKAGE 89
12. LETTER FROM LUCIFER 96
13. INDECISION 104
14. TOO BIZARRE 112
15. A MODERN MR. HYDE 119
16. POSSESSED 127
17. WITCH-DOCTOR 135
18. VANISHED 142
19. MAN OR MONSTER? 149
20. THE ASSIGNATION 156
21. A QUESTION OF SYNAPSES 164
22. DOCTOR AND DEVIL 172
23. WEREWOLF 180
24. THE DARK OTHER 186
25. THE DEMON LOVER 194
26. THE DEPTHS 201
27. TWO IN HELL 209
28. LUNAR OMEN 217
29. SCOPOLAMINE FOR SATAN 225
30. THE DEMON FREE 233
31. "NOT HUMANLY POSSIBLE" 242
32. REVELATION 250
The Dark Other
1
Pure Horror
"That isn't what I mean," said Nicholas Devine, turning his eyes on his
companion. "I mean pure horror in the sense of horror detached from
experience, apart from reality. Not just a formless fear, which implies
either fear of something that _might_ happen, or fear of unknown
dangers. Do you see what I mean?" "Of course," said Pat, letting her eyes wander over the black expanse
of night-dark Lake Michigan. "Certainly I see what you mean but I don't
quite understand how you'd do it. It sounds--well, difficult." She gazed at his lean profile, clear-cut against the distant light. He had turned, staring thoughtfully over the lake, idly fingering the
levers on the steering wheel before him. The girl wondered a little at
her feeling of contentment; she, Patricia Lane, satisfied to spend an
evening in nothing more exciting than conversation! And they must have
parked here a full two hours now. There was something about Nick--she
didn't understand exactly what; sensitivity, charm, personality. Those
were meaningless cliches, handles to hold the unexplainable nuances of
character. "It _is_ difficult," resumed Nick. "Baudelaire tried it, Poe tried it. And in painting, Hogarth, Goya, Dore. Poe came closest, I think; he
caught the essence of horror in an occasional poem or story. Don't you
think so?" "I don't know," said Pat. "I've forgotten most of my Poe." "Remember that story of his--'The Black Cat'?" "Dimly. The man murdered his wife." "Yes. That isn't the part I mean. I mean the cat itself--the second
cat. You know a cat, used rightly, can be a symbol of horror." "Indeed yes!" The girl shuddered. "I don't like the treacherous beasts!" "And this cat of Poe's," continued Nick, warming to his subject. "Just
think of it--in the first place, it's black; element of horror. Then,
it's gigantic, unnaturally, abnormally large. And then it's not all
black--that would be inartistically perfect--but has a formless white
mark on its breast, a mark that little by little assumes a fantastic
form--do you remember what?" "No." "The form of a gallows!" "Oh!" said the girl. "Ugh!" "And then--climax of genius--the eyes! Blind in one eye, the other a
baleful yellow orb! Do you feel it? A black cat, an enormous black cat
marked with a gallows, and lacking one eye, to make the other even
more terrible! Literary tricks, of course, but they work, and _that's_
genius! Isn't it?" "Genius! Yes, if you call it that. The perverse genius of the Devil!" "That's what I want to write--what I will write some day." He watched
the play of lights on the restless surface of the waters. "Pure horror,
the epitome of the horrible. It could be written, but it hasn't been
yet; not even by Poe." "That little analysis of yours was bad enough, Nick! Why should you
want to improve on his treatment of the theme?" "Because I like to write, and because I'm interested in the horrible. Two good reasons." "Two excuses, you mean. Of course, even if you'd succeed, you couldn't
force anyone to read it." "If I succeed, there'd be no need to force people. Success would mean
that the thing would be great literature, and even today, in these
times, there are still people to read that. And besides--" He paused. "Besides what?" "Everybody's interested in the horrible. Even you are, whether or not
you deny it." "I certainly do deny it!" "But you are, Pat. It's natural to be." "It isn't!" "Then what is?" "Interest in people, and life, and gay times, and pretty things,
and--and one's self and one's own feelings. And the feelings of the
people one loves." "Yes. It comes to exactly the point I've been stressing. People are
sordid, life is hopeless, gay times are stupid, beauty is sensual,
one's own feelings are selfish. And love is carnal. That's the array of
horrors that holds your interest!" The girl laughed in exasperation. "Nick, you could out-argue your
name-sake, the Devil himself! Do you really believe that indictment of
the normal viewpoint?" "I do--often!" "Now?" "Now," he said, turning his gaze on Pat, "I have no feeling of it at
all. Now, right now, I don't believe it." "Why not?" she queried, smiling ingenuously at him. "You, obviously." "Gracious! I had no idea my logic was as convincing as that." "Your logic isn't. The rest of you is." "That sounds like a compliment," observed Pat. "If it is," she
continued in a bantering tone, "it's the only one I can recall
obtaining from you." "That's because I seldom call attention to the obvious." "And that's another," laughed the girl. "I'll have to mark this date in
red on my calendar. It's entirely unique in our--let's see--nearly a
month's acquaintance." "Is it really so short a time? I know you so well that it must have
taken years. Every detail!" | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
He closed his eyes. "Hair like black silk,
and oddly dark blue eyes--if I were writing a poem at the moment, I'd
call them violet. Tiny lips, the sort the Elizabethan called bee-stung. Straight nose, and a figure that is a sort of vest-pocket copy of
Diana. Right?" He opened his eyes. "Nice, but exaggerated. And even if you were correct, that isn't Pat
Lane, the real Pat Lane. A camera could do better on a tenth of a
second's acquaintance!" "Check!" He closed his eyes again. "Personality, piquant. Character,
loyal, naturally happy, intelligent, but not serious. An intellectual
butterfly; a dilettante. Poised, cool, self-possessed, yet inherently
affectionate. A being untouched by reality, as yet, living in Chicago
and in a make-believe world at the same time." He paused, "How old are
you, Pat?" "Twenty-two. Why?" "I wondered how long one could manage to stay in the world of
make-believe. I'm twenty-six, and I'm long exiled." "I don't think you know what you mean by a make-believe world. I'm sure
I don't." "Of course you don't. You can't know and still remain there. It's like
being happy; once you realize it, it's no longer perfect." "Then don't explain!" "Wouldn't make any difference if I did, Pat. It's a queer world, like
the Sardoodledom of Sardou and the afternoon-tea school of playwrights. All stage-settings and pretense, but it looks real while you're
watching, especially if you're one of the characters." The girl laughed. "You're a deliciously solemn sort, Nick. How would
you like to hear my analysis of you?" "I wouldn't!" "You inflicted yours on me, and I'm entitled to revenge. And so--you're
intelligent, lazy, dreamy, and with a fine perception of artistic
values. You're very alert to impressions of the senses--I mean you're
sensuous without being sensual. You're delightfully serious without
being somber, except sometimes. Sometimes I feel a hint, just a
thrilling hint, in your character, of something dangerously darker--"
"Don't!" said Nick sharply. Pat shot him a quick glance. "And you're frightened to death of
falling in love," she concluded imperturbably. "Oh! Do you think so?" "I do." "Then you're wrong! I can't be afraid of it, since I've known for the
better part of a month that I've been in love." "With me," said the girl. "Yes, with you!" "Well!" said Pat. "It never before took me a month to extract that
admission from a man. Is twenty-two getting old?" "You're a tantalizing imp!" "And so?" She pursed her lips, assuming an air of disappointment. "What
am I to do about it--scream for help? You haven't given me anything to
scream about." The kiss, Pat admitted to herself, was quite satisfactory. She yielded
herself to the pleasure of it; it was decidedly the best kiss she had,
in her somewhat limited experience, encountered. She pushed herself
away finally, with a little gasp, gazing bright-eyed at her companion. He was staring down at her with serious eyes; there was a tense twist
to his mouth, and a curiously unexpected attitude of unhappiness. "Nick!" she murmured. "Was it as bad as all that?" "Bad! Pat, does it mean you--care for me? A little, anyway?" "A little," she admitted. "Maybe more. Is that what makes you look so
forlorn?" He drew her closer to him. "How could I look forlorn, Honey, when
something like this has happened to me? That was just my way of looking
happy." She nestled as closely as the steering wheel permitted, drawing his arm
about her shoulders. "I hope you mean that, Nick." "Then _you_ mean it? You really do?" "I really do." "I'm glad," he said huskily. The girl thought she detected a strange
dubious note in his voice. She glanced at his face; his eyes were
gazing into the dim remoteness of the night horizon. "Nick," she said, "why were you so--well, so reluctant about admitting
this? You must have known I--like you. I showed you that deliberately
in so many ways." "I--I wasn't quite sure." "You were! That isn't it, Nick. I had to practically browbeat you into
confessing you cared for me. Why?" He stepped on the starter; the motor ground into sudden life. The car
backed into the road, turning toward Chicago, that glared like a false
dawn in the southern sky. "I hope you never find out," he said. 2
Science of Mind
"She's out," said Pat as the massive form of Dr. Carl Horker loomed in
the doorway. "Your treatments must be successful; Mother's out playing
bridge." The Doctor gave his deep, rumbling chuckle. "So much the better, Pat. I don't feel professional anyway." He moved into the living room,
depositing his bulk on a groaning davenport. "And how's yourself?" "Too well to be a patient of yours," retorted the girl. "Psychiatry! The new religion! Just between friends, it's all applesauce, isn't it?" "If I weren't trying to act in place of your father, I'd resent that,
young lady," said the Doctor placidly. "Psychiatry is a definite
science, and a pretty important one. Applied psychology, the science of
the human mind." "If said mind exists," added the girl, swinging her slim legs over the
arm of a chair. "Correct," agreed the Doctor. "In my practice I find occasional
evidence that it does. Or did; your generation seems to have found
substitutes." "Which appears to work just as well!" laughed Pat. "All our troubles
are more or less inherited from your generation." "Touche!" admitted Dr. Horker. "But my generation also bequeathed you
some solid values which you don't know how to use." "They've been weighed and found wanting," said Pat airily. "We're busy
replacing them with our own values." "Which are certainly no better." "Maybe not, Doc, but at least they're ours." "Yours and Tom Paine's. I can't see that you young moderns have brought
any new ideas to the social scheme." "New or not, we're the first ones to give 'em a try-out. Your crowd
took it out in talk." "That's an insult," observed the Doctor cheerfully. "If I weren't
acting _in loco parentis_--"
"I know! You'd give me a few licks in the spot popularly supposed to
do the most good! Well, that's part of a parent's privilege, isn't it?" "You've grown beyond the spanking age, my dear. Physically, if not
mentally--though I don't say the process would hurt me as much as you. I'd doubtless enjoy it." "Then you might try sending me to bed without my dinner," the girl
laughed. "That's a doctor's prerogative, Pat. I've even done that to your
Mother." "In other words, you're a complete flop as a parent. All the
responsibilities, and none of the privileges." "That expresses it." "Well, you elected yourself, Doc. It's not my fault you happened to
live next door." "No. It's my misfortune." "And I notice," remarked Pat wickedly, "that you're not too thoroughly
_in loco_ to neglect sending Mother a bill for services rendered!" "My dear girl, that's part of the treatment!" "So? And how?" "I furnish a bill just steep enough to keep your mother from indulging
too frequently in medical services. Without that little practical check
on her inclinations, she'd be a confirmed neurotic. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
One of those sweet,
resigned, professional invalids, you know." "Then why not send her a bill tall enough to cure her altogether?" "She might change to psychoanalysis or New Thought," chuckled the
Doctor. "Besides, your father wanted me to look after her, and besides
that, I like having the run of the house." "Well, I'm sure I don't mind," observed Pat. "We've a dog and a canary
bird, too." "You're in fine fettle this afternoon!" laughed her companion. "Must've
been a successful date last night." "It was." Her eyes turned suddenly dreamy. "You're in love again, Pat!" he accused. "Again? Why the 'again'?" "Well, there was Billy, and that Paul--"
"Oh, those!" Her tone was contemptuous. "Merely passing fancies, Doc. Just whims, dreams of the moment--in other words, puppy love." "And this? I suppose this is different--a grand passion?" "I don't know," she said, frowning abruptly. "He's nice, but--odd. Attractive as--well, as the devil." "Odd? How?" "Oh, he's one of those minds you think we moderns lack." "Intellectual, eh? New variety for you; out of the usual run of your
dancing collegiates. I've often suspected that you picked your swains
by the length and lowness of their cars." "Maybe I did. That was one of the chief differences between them." "How'd you meet this mental paragon?" "Billy Fields dragged him around to one of those literary evenings he
affects--where they read Oscar Wilde and Eugene O'Neil aloud. Bill met
him at the library." "And he out-shone all the local lights, I perceive." "He surely did!" retorted Pat. "And he hardly said a word the whole
evening." "He wouldn't have to, if they're all like Billy! What's this prodigy's
specialty?" "He writes. I think--laugh if you want to!--I think perhaps he's a
genius." "Well," said Doctor Horker, "even that's possible. It's been known to
occur, but rarely, to my knowledge, in your generation." "Oh, we're just dimmed by the glare of brilliance from yours." She
swung her legs to the floor, facing the Doctor. "Do you psychiatrists
actually _know_ anything about love?" she queried. "We're supposed to." "What is it, then?" "Just a device of Nature's for perpetuating the species. Some organisms
manage without it, and do pretty well." "Yes. I've heard references to the poor fish!" "Then they're inaccurate; fish have primitive symptoms of eroticism. But below the vertebrates, notably in the amoeba, I don't recall any
amorous habits." "Then your definition doesn't explain a thing, does it?" "Not to one of the victims, perhaps." "Anyway," said Pat decisively, "I've heard of the old biological urge
before your kind analysis. It doesn't begin to explain why one should
be attracted to this person and repelled by that one. Does it?" "No, but Freud does. The famous Oedipus Complex." "That's the love of son for mother, or daughter for father, isn't it? And I don't see how that clears up anything; for example, I can just
barely remember my father." "That's plenty. It could be some little trait in these swains of yours,
some unimportant mannerism that recalls that memory. Or there's that
portrait of him in the hall--the one under the mellow red light. It
might happen that you'd see one of these chaps under a similar light
in some attitude that brings the picture to mind--or a hundred other
possibilities." "Doesn't sound entirely convincing," objected Pat with a thoughtful
frown. "Well, submit to the proper treatments, and I'll tell you exactly what
caused each and every one of your little passing fancies. You can't
expect me to hit it first guess." "Thanks, no! That's one of these courses where you tell the doctor all
your secrets, and I prefer to keep what few I have." "Good judgment, Pat. By the way, you said this chap was odd. Does that
mean merely that he writes? I've known perfectly normal people who
wrote." "No," she said, "it isn't that. It's--he's so sweet and gentle and
manageable most of the time, but sometimes he has such a thrilling
spark of mastery that it almost scares me. It's puzzling but
fascinating, if you grasp my import." "Huh! He's probably a naturally selfish fellow who's putting on a good
show of gentleness for your benefit. Those flashes of tyranny are
probably his real character in moment of forgetfulness." "You doctors can explain anything, can't you?" "That's our business. It's what we're paid for." "Well, you're wrong this time. I know Nick well enough to know if he's
acting. His personality is just what I said--gentle, sensitive, and
yet--It's perplexing, and that's a good part of his charm." "Then it's not such a serious case you've got," mocked the doctor. "When you're cool enough to analyze your own feelings, and dissect the
elements of the chap's attraction, you're not in any danger." "Danger! I can look out for myself, thanks. That's one thing we
mindless moderns learn young, and don't let me catch you puttering
around in my romances! _In loco parentis_ or just plain loco, you'll
get the licking instead of me!" "Believe me, Pat, if I wanted to experiment with affairs of the heart,
I'd not pick a spit-fire like you as the subject." "Well, Doctor Carl, you're warned!" "This Nick," observed the Doctor, "must be quite a fellow to get the
princess of the North Side so het up. What's the rest of his cognomen?" "Nicholas Devine. Romantic, isn't it?" "Devine," muttered Horker. "I don't know any Devines. Who are his
people?" "Hasn't any." "How does he live? By his writing?" "Don't know. I gathered that he lives on some income left by his
parents. What's the difference, anyway?" "None. None at all." The other wrinkled his brows thoughtfully. "There
was a colleague of mine, a Dr. Devine; died a good many years ago. Reputation wasn't anything to brag about; was a little off balance
mentally." "Well, Nick isn't!" snapped Pat with some asperity. "I'd like to meet him." "He's coming over tonight." "So'm I. I want to see your mother." He rose ponderously. "If she's not
playing bridge again!" "Well, look him over," retorted Pat. "And I think your knowledge
of love is a decided flop. I think you're woefully ignorant on the
subject." "Why's that?" "If you'd known anything about it, you could have married mother some
time during the last seventeen years. Lord knows you've tried, and
all you've attained is the state of _in loco parentis_ instead of
_parens_." 3
Psychiatrics of Genius
"How do you charge--by the hour?" asked Pat, as Doctor Horker returned
from the hall. The sound of her mother's departing footsteps pattered
on the porch. "Of course, Young One; like a plumber." "Then your rates per minute must be colossal! The only time you ever
see Mother is a moment or so between bridge games." "I add on the time I waste with you, my dear. Such as now, waiting to
look over that odd swain of yours. Didn't you say he'd be over this
evening?" "Yes, but it's not worth your rates to have him psychoanalyzed. I can
do as well myself." "All right, Pat. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
I'll give you a sample analysis free," chuckled the
Doctor, distributing his bulk comfortably on the davenport. "I don't like free trials," she retorted. "I sent for a beauty-culture
book once, on free trial. I was twelve years only, and returned it in
seven days, but I'm still getting sales letters in the mails. I must be
on every sucker list in the country." "So that's the secret of your charm." "What is?" "You must have read the book, I mean. If you remember the title, I
might try it myself. Think it'd help?" "Dr. Carl," laughed the girl, "you don't need a book on beauty
culture--you need one on bridge! It's that atrocious game you play
that's bothering Mother." "Indeed? I shouldn't be surprised if you were right; I've suspected
that." "Save your surprise for when I'm wrong, Doc. You'll suffer much less
from shock." "Confident little brat! You're apt to get that knocked out of you some
day, though I hope you never do." "I can take it," grinned Pat. "No doubt you can, but you're an adept at handing it out. Where's this
chap of yours?" "He'll be along. No one's ever stood me up on a date yet." "I can understand that, you imp! Is that the famous Nick?" he queried
as a car purred to a stop beyond the windows. "No one else!" said the girl, glancing out. "The Big Thrill in person." She darted to the door. Horker turned casually to watch her as she
opened it, surveying Nicholas Devine with professional nonchalance. He entered, tall, slender, with his thin sensitive features sharply
outlined in the light of the hall. He cast a quick glance toward the
Doctor; the latter noted the curious amber-green eyes of the lad, set
wide in the lean face, deep, speculative, the eyes of a dreamer. "Evening, Nick," Pat was bubbling. The newcomer gave her a hasty
smile, with another glance at the Doctor. "Don't mind Dr. Carl," she
continued. "Aren't you going to kiss me? It irks the medico, and I
never miss a chance." Nicholas flushed in embarrassment; he gestured hesitantly, then placed
a hasty peck of a kiss on the girl's forehead. He reddened again at the
Doctor's rumble of "Young imp of Satan!" "Not very good," said Pat reflectively, obviously enjoying the
situation. "I've known you to do better." She pulled him toward the
arch of the living room. "Come meet Dr. Horker. Dr. Carl, this is the
aforesaid Nicholas Devine." "Dr. Horker," repeated the lad, smiling diffidently. "You're the
psychiatrist and brain specialist, aren't you, Sir?" "So my patients believe," rumbled the massive Doctor, rising at the
introduction, and grasping the youth's hand. "And you're the genius
Patricia has been raving about. I'm glad to have the chance of looking
you over." Nick gave the girl a harassed glance, shifting uncomfortably, and
patently at a loss for a reply. She grinned mischievously. "Sit down, both of you," she suggested helpfully. She seized his hat
from the reluctant hands of Nick, sailing it carelessly to a chair. "So!" boomed the Doctor, lowering his great bulk again to the
davenport. He eyed the youth sitting nervously before him. "Devine, did
you say?" "Yes, sir." "I knew a Devine once. Colleague of mine." "A doctor? My father was a doctor." "Dr. Stuart Devine?" "Yes, sir." He paused. "Did you say you knew him, Dr. Horker?" "Slightly," rumbled the other. "Only slightly." "I don't remember him at all, of course, I was very young when he--and
my mother too--died." "You must have been. Patricia claims you write." "I try." "What sort of material?" "Why--any sort. Prose or poetry; what I feel like writing." "Whatever inspires you, I suppose?" "Yes, sir." The lad flushed again. "Ever have anything published?" "Yes, sir. In _Nation's Poetry_." "Never heard of it." "It has a large circulation," said Nick apologetically. "Humph! Well, that's something. Whom do you like?" "Whom do I like?" The youth's tone was puzzled. "What authors--writers?" "Oh." He cast another uncomfortable glance at Pat. "Why--I like
Baudelaire, and Poe, and Swinburne, and Villon, and--"
"Decadents, all of them!" sniffed the Doctor. "What prose writers?" "Well--" He hesitated--"Poe again, and Stern, and Rabelais--"
"Rabelais!" Horker's voice boomed. "Well! Your taste can't be as bad as
I thought, then. There's one we agree on, anyway. And I notice you name
no moderns, which is another good point." "I haven't read many moderns, sir." "That's in your favor." "Cut it!" put in Pat with assumed sharpness. "You've taken enough
whacks at my generation for one day." "I'm glad to find one of your generation who agrees with me," chuckled
the Doctor. "At least to the extent of not reading its works." "I'll teach him," grinned Pat. "I'll have him writing vess libre, and
maybe even dadaism, in a week." "Maybe it won't be much loss," grunted Horker. "I haven't seen any of
his work yet." "We'll bring some around sooner or later. We will, won't we, Nick?" "Of course, if you want to. But--"
"He's going to say something modest," interrupted the girl. "He's in
the retiring mood now, but he's apt to change any moment, and snap your
surly head off." "Humph! I'd like to see it." "So'd I," retorted Pat. "You've had it coming all day; maybe I'll do it
myself." "You have, my dear, innumerable times. But I'm like the Hydra, except
that I grow only one head to replace the one you snap off." He turned
again to Nicholas. "Do you work?" "Yes, sir. At my writing." "I mean how do you live?" "Why," said the youth, reddening again in embarrassment, "my parents--"
"Listen!" said Pat. "That's enough of Dr. Carl's cross examination. You'd think he was a Victorian father who had just been approached for
his daughter's hand. We haven't whispered any news of an engagement to
you, have we, Doc?" "No, but I'm acting--"
"Sure. _In loco parentis._ We know that." "You're incorrigible, Pat! I wash my hands of you. Run along, if you're
going out." "You'll be telling me never to darken my own door again in the next
breath!" She stretched forth a diminutive foot at the extremity of
a superlatively attractive ankle, caught Nick's hat on her toe, and
kicked it expertly to his lap. "Come on, Nick. There's a moon." "There is not!" objected the Doctor huffily. "It rises at four, as you
ought to know. You didn't see it last night, did you?" "I didn't notice," said the girl. "Come on, Nick, and we'll watch
it rise tonight. We'll check up on the Doctor's astronomy, or is it
chronology?" "You do and I'll know it! I can hear you come home, you imp!" "Nice neighbor," observed Pat airily, as she stepped to the door. "I'll
bet you peek out of the window, too." She ignored the Doctor's irritated rumble as she passed into the hall,
where Nick, after a diffident murmur of farewell to Horker, followed. She caught up a light cape, which he draped about her shoulders. "Nick," she said, "suppose you run out to the car and wait. I think
I've stepped too hard on Dr. Carl's corns, and I want to give him a
little cheering up. Will you?" "Of course, Pat." | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
She darted back into the living room, perching on the arm of the
davenport beside the Doctor. "Well?" she said, running her hand through his grizzled hair. "What's
the verdict?" "Seems like a nice kid," grumbled Horker reluctantly. "Nice enough,
but introverted, repressed, and I shouldn't be surprised to find him
anti-social. Doesn't adjust easily to his environment; takes refuge in
a dream world of his own." "That's what he accuses me of doing," grinned Pat. "That all you've got
against him?" "That's all, but where's that streak of mastery you mentioned? You lead
him around on a leash!" "It didn't show up tonight. That's the thrill--the unexpectedness of
it." "Bah! You must've dreamed it. There's no more aggressiveness in that
lad than in KoKo, your canary." "Don't you believe it, Dr. Carl! The trouble is that he's a genius, and
that's where your psychology falls flat." "Genius," said the Doctor oracularly, "is a sublimation of qualities--"
"I'll tell you tomorrow how sublime the qualities are," called Pat as
she skipped out of the door. 4
The Transfiguration
The car slid smoothly along a straight white road that stretched ahead
into the darkness like an earth-bound Milky Way. In the dim distance
before them, red as Antares, glowed the tail-light of some automobile;
except for this lone evidence of humanity, reflected Pat, they might
have been flashing through the cosmic depths of interstellar space,
instead of following a highway in the very shadow of Chicago. The
colossal city of the lake-shore was invisible behind them, and the
clustering suburbs with it. "Queer, isn't it?" said Pat, after a silence, "how contented we can
be with none of the purchased amusement people crave--shows, movies,
dancing, and all that." "It doesn't seem queer to me," answered Nick. "Not when I look at you
here beside me." "Nice of you!" retorted Pat. "But it's never happened to me before." She paused, then continued, "How do you like the Doctor?" "How does he like me? That's considerably more to the point, isn't it?" "He thinks you're nice, but--let's see--introverted, repressed, and
ill-adjusted to your environment. I think those were the points." "Well, _I_ liked _him_, in spite of your manoeuvers, and in spite of
his being a doctor." "What's wrong with being a doctor?" "Did you ever read 'Tristram Shandy'?" was Nick's irrelevant response. "No, but I read the newspapers!" "What's the connection, Pat?" "Just as much connection as there is between the evils of being a
doctor and reading 'Tristram Shandy'. I know that much about the book,
at least." "You're nearly right," laughed Nick. "I was just referring to one of
Tristram's remarks on doctors and lawyers. It fits my attitude." "What's the remark?" "Well, he had the choice of professions, and it occurred to him that
medicine and law were the vulture professions, since lawyers live
by men's quarrels and doctors by men's misfortunes. So--he became a
writer." "And what do writers live by?" queried Pat mischievously. "By men's
stupidity!" "You're precious, Pat!" Nick chuckled delightedly. "If I'd created you
to order, I couldn't have planned you more to taste--pepper, tabasco
sauce, vinegar, spice, and honey!" "And to be taken with a grain of salt," retorted the girl, puckering
her piquant, impish features. She edged closer to him, locking her arm
through his where it rested on the steering wheel. "Nick," she said, her tones suddenly gentle, "I think I'm pretty crazy
about you. Heaven knows why I should be, but it's a fact." "Pat, dear!" "I'm crazy about you in this meek, sensitive pose of yours, and I'm
fascinated by those masterful moments you flash occasionally. Really,
Nick, I almost wish you flamed out oftener." "Don't!" he said sharply. "Why not?" "Let's not talk about me, Pat. It--embarrasses me." "All right, Mr. Modesty! Let's talk about me, then. I'll promise we
won't succeed in embarrassing me." "And it's quite the most interesting subject in the world, Pat." "Well, then?" "What?" "Why don't you start talking? The topic is all attention." He chuckled. "How many men have told you you were beautiful, Pat?" "I never kept account." "And in many different ways?" "Why? Have you, perchance, discovered a new way, Nick?" "Not at all. The oldest way of any, the way of Sappho and Pindar." "O-ooh!" She clapped her hands in mock delight. "Poetry!" "The only medium that could possibly express how lovely you are," said
Nick. "Nicholas, have you gone and composed a poem to me?" "Composed? No. It isn't necessary, with you here beside me." "What's that? Some very subtle compliment?" "Not subtle, Pat. You're the poem yourself; all I need do is look at
you, listen to you, and translate." "Neat!" applauded the girl. "Do I hear the translation?" "You certainly do." He turned his odd amber-green eyes on her, then
bent forward to the road. He began to speak in a low voice. "In no far country's silent ways
Shall I forget one little thing--
The soft intentness of your gaze,
The sweetness of your murmuring
Your generously tender praise,
The words just hinted by a breath--
In no far country's silent way,
Unless that country's name be Death--"
He paused abruptly, and drove silently onward. "Oh," breathed Pat. "Why don't you go on, Nick? Please." "No. It isn't the mood for this night, Dear. Not this night, alone with
you." "What is, then?" "Nothing sentimental. Something lighter, something--oh, Elizabethan. That's it." "And what's stopping you?" "Lack of an available idea. Or--wait. Listen a moment." He began, this
time in a tone of banter. "When mornings, you attire yourself
For riding in the city,
You're such a lovely little elf,
Extravagantly pretty! And when at noon you deign to wear
The habit of the town,
I cannot call to mind as fair
A symphony in brown. "Then evenings, you blithely don
A daintiness of white,
To flash a very paragon
Of lightsomeness--and light! But when the rounds of pleasure cease,
And you retire at night,
The Godling on your mantelpiece
Must know a fairer sight!" "Sweet!" laughed Pat. "But personal. And anyway, how do you know I've a
godling on my mantel? Don't you credit me with any modesty?" "If you haven't, you should have! The vision I mentioned ought to
enliven even a statue." "Well," said the girl, "I have one--a jade Buddha, and with all the
charms I flash before him nightly, he's never batted an eyelash. Explain that!" "Easily. He's green with envy, and frozen with admiration, and struck
dumb by wonder." "Heavens! I suppose I ought to be thankful you didn't say he was
petrified with fright!" Pat laughed. "Oh Nick," she continued, in a
voice gone suddenly dreamy, "this _is_ marvelous, isn't it? I mean our
enjoying ourselves so completely, and our being satisfied to be so
alone. Why, we've never even danced together." "So we haven't. That's a subterfuge we haven't needed, isn't it?" | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
"It is," replied the girl, dropping her glossy gleaming black head
against his shoulder. "And besides, it's much more satisfactory to be
held in your arms in private, instead of in the midst of a crowd, and
sitting down, instead of standing up. But I should like to dance with
you, Nick," she concluded. "We'll go dancing, then, whenever you like." "You're delightfully complaisant, Nick. But--you're puzzling." She
glanced up at him. "You're so--so reluctant. Here we've been driving an
hour, and you haven't tried to kiss me a single time, and yet I'm quite
positive you care for me." "Lord, Pat!" he muttered. "You never need doubt that." "Then what is it? Are you so spiritual and ethereal, or is my
attraction for you just sort of intellectual? Or--are you afraid?" As
he made no reply, she continued, "Or are those poems you spout about my
physical charms just--poetic license?" "They're not, and you know it!" he snapped. "You've a mirror, haven't
you? And other fellows than I have taken you around, haven't they?" "Oh, I've been taken around! That's what perplexes me about you, Nick. I'd think you were actually afraid of kissing me if it weren't--" Her
voice trailed into silence, and she stared speculatively ahead at the
ribbon of road that rolled steadily into the headlights' glare. She broke the interval of wordlessness. "What is it, Nick?" she
resumed almost pleadingly. "You've hinted at something now and then. Please--you don't have to hesitate to tell me; I'm modern enough to
forgive things past, entanglements, affairs, disgraces, or anything
like that. Don't you think I should know?" "You'd know," he said huskily, "if I could tell you." "Then there is something, Nick!" She pressed his arm against her. "Tell
me, isn't there?" "I don't know." There was the suggestion of a groan in his voice. "You don't know! I can't understand." "I can't either. Please, Pat, let's not spoil tonight; if I could tell
you, I would. Why, Pat, I love you--I'm terribly, deeply, solemnly in
love with you." "And I with you, Nick." She gazed ahead, where the road rose over the
arch of a narrow bridge. The speeding car lifted to the rise like a
zooming plane. And suddenly, squarely in the center of the road, another car, until
now concealed by the arch of the bridge, appeared almost upon them. There was a heart-stopping moment when a collision seemed inevitable,
and Pat felt the arm against her tighten convulsively into a bar of
steel. She heard her own sobbing gasp, and then, somehow, they had
slipped unscathed between the other car and the rail of the bridge. "Oh!" she gasped faintly, then with a return of breath, "That was nice,
Nick!" Beyond the bridge, the road widened once more; she felt the car
slowing, edging toward the broad shoulder of the road. "There was danger," said her companion in tones as emotionless as the
rasping of metal. "I came to save it." "Save what?" queried Pat as the car slid to a halt on the turf. "Your body." The tones were still cold, like grinding wheels. "The
beauty of your body!" He reached a thin hand toward her, suddenly seized her skirt and
snatched it above the silken roundness of her knees. "There," he
rasped. "That is what I mean." "Nick!" Pat half-screamed in appalled astonishment. "How--" She paused,
shocked into abrupt silence, for the face turned toward her was but a
remote, evil caricature of Nicholas Devine's. It leered at her out of
blood-shot eyes, as if behind the mask of Nick's face peered a red-eyed
demon. 5
A Fantasy of Fear
The satyr beside pat was leaning toward her; the arm about her was
tightening with a brutal ruthlessness, and while still staring in
fascination at the incredible eyes, she realized that another arm and
a white hand was moving relentlessly, exploratively, toward her body. It was the cold touch of this hand as it slipped over her silk-sheathed
legs that broke the chilling spell of her fascination. "Nick!" she screamed. "Nick!" She had a curious sensation of calling
him back from far distances, the while she strove with both hands and
all her strength to press him back from her. But the ruthless force of
his arms was overcoming her resistance; she saw the red eyes a hand's
breadth from her own. "Nick!" she sobbed in terror. There was a change. Abruptly, she was looking into Nick's eyes,
blood-shot, frightened, puzzled, but indubitably Nick's eyes. The
flaming orbs of the demon were no more; it was as if they had receded
into Nick's head. The arm about her body relaxed, and they were staring
at each other in a medley of consternation, amazement and unbelief. The
youth drew back, huddled in his corner of the car, and Pat, breathing
in sobs, smoothed out her rumpled apparel with a convulsive movement. "Pat!" he gasped. "Oh, my God! He couldn't have--" He paused abruptly. The girl gazed at him without reply. "Pat, Dear," he spoke in a low, tense murmur, "I'm--sorry. I don't
know--I don't understand how--"
"Never mind," she said, regaining a vestige of her customary composure. "It's--all right, Nick." "But--oh, Pat--!" "It was that near accident," she said. "That upset you--both of us, I
mean." "Yes!" he said eagerly. "That's what it was, Pat. It must have been
that, but Dear, can you forgive? Do you want to forgive me?" "It's all right," she repeated. "After all, you just complimented my
legs, and I guess I can stand that. It's happened before, only not
quite so--convincingly!" "You're sweet, Pat!" "No; I just love you Nick." She felt a sudden pity for the misery in
his face. "Kiss me, Nick--only gently." He pressed his lips to hers, very lightly, almost timidly. She lay back
against the seat for a moment, her eyes closed. "That's you again," she murmured. "This other--wasn't." "Please, Pat! Don't refer to it,--not ever." "But it wasn't you, Nick. It was just the strain of that narrow escape. I don't hold it against you." "You're--Lord, Pat, I don't deserve you. But you know that I--I
myself--could never touch you except in tenderness, even in reverence. You're too dainty, too lovely, too spirited, to be hurt, or to be held
roughly, against your will. You know I feel that way about you, don't
you?" "Of course. It was nothing, Nick. Forget it." "If I can," he said somberly. He switched on the engine, backed out
upon the pavement, and turned the car toward the glow that marked
Chicago. Neither of them spoke as the machine hummed over the arching
bridge and down the slope, where, so few minutes before, the threat of
accident had thrust itself at them. "We won't see a moon tonight," said Pat in a small voice, after an
interval. "We'll never check up on Dr. Carl's astronomy." "You don't want to tonight, Pat, do you?" "I guess perhaps we'd better not," she replied. "We're both upset, and
there'll be other nights." Again they were silent. Pat felt strained, shaken; there was something
uncanny about the occurrence that puzzled her. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
The red eyes that had
glared out of Nick's face perplexed her, and the curious rasping voice
he had used still sounded inhumanly in her memory. Out of recollection
rose still another mystery. "Nick," she said, "what did you mean--then--when you said there was
danger and you came to save me?" "Nothing," he said sharply. "And then, afterwards, you started to say something about 'He couldn't
have--'. Who's 'he'?" "It meant nothing, I tell you. I was frantic to think you might have
been hurt. That's all." "I believe you, Honey," she said, wondering whether she really did. The
thing was beginning to grow hazy; already it was assuming merely the
proportions of an upheaval of youthful fervor. Such occurrences were
not unheard of, though never before had it happened to Patricia Lane! Still, even that was conceivable, far more conceivable than the dark,
unformed, inchoate suspicions she had been harboring. They hadn't even
been definite enough to be called suspicions; indefinite apprehensions
came closer. And yet--that strange, wild face that had formed itself of Nick's fine
features, and the terrible red eyes! Were they elements in a picture
conjured out of her own imagination? They must be, of course. She had
been frightened by that hairbreadth escape, and had seen things that
didn't exist. And the rest of it--well, that might be natural enough. Still, there was something--she knew that; Nick had admitted it. Horker's words concerning Nick's father rose in her mind. Suspected
of being crazy! Was that it? Was that the cause of Nick's curious
reluctance where she was concerned? Was the face that had glared
at her the visage of a maniac? It couldn't be. It couldn't be, she
told herself fiercely. Not her fine, tender, sensitive Nick! And
besides, that face, if she hadn't imagined it, had been the face, not
of a lunatic, but of a devil. She shook her head, as if to deny her
thoughts, and placed her hand impulsively on Nick's. "I don't care," she said. "I love you, Nick." "And I you," he murmured. "Pat, I'm sorry about spoiling this evening. I'm sorry and ashamed." "Never mind, Honey. There'll be others." "Tomorrow?" "No," she said. "Mother and I are going out to dinner. And Friday we're
having company." "Really, Pat? You're not just trying to turn me off gently." "Really, Nick. Try asking me for Saturday evening and see!" "You're asked, then." "And it's a date." Then, with a return of her usual insouciance, she
added. "If you're on good behavior." "I will be. I promise." "I hope so," said Pat. An inexplicable sense of foreboding had come
over her; despite her self-given assurances, something unnameable
troubled her. She gave a mental shrug, and deliberately relegated the
unpleasant cogitations to oblivion. The car turned into Dempster Road; the lights of the teeming
roadhouses, dance halls, road-side hamburger and barbecue stands
flashed by. There were many cars here; there was no longer any
impression of solitude now, in the overflow from the vast city in
whose shadow they moved. The incessant flow of traffic gave the girl
a feeling of security; these were tangible things about her, and once
more the memory of that disturbing occurrence became dim and dreamlike. This was Nick beside her, gentle, intelligent, kind; had he ever been
otherwise? It seemed highly unreasonable, a fantasy of fear and the
hysteria of the moment. "Hungry?" asked Nick unexpectedly. "I could use a barbecue, I guess. Beef." The car veered to the graveled area before a brightly lit stand. Nick
gave the order to an attendant. He chuckled as Pat, with the digestive
disregard of youth attacked the greasy combination. "That's like a humming bird eating hay!" he said. "Or better, like a
leprechaun eating that horse-meat they can for dogs." "You might as well discover that I don't live on honey and
rose-petals," said Pat. "Not even on caviar and terrapin--at least, not
exclusively. I leave the dainty palate for Mother to indulge." "Which is just as well. Hamburger and barbecue are more easily
budgeted." "Nicholas," said the girl, tossing the paper napkin out of the car
window, "is that an indirect and very evasive proposal of marriage?" "You know it could be, if you wished it!" "And do I?" she said, assuming a pensive air. "I wonder. Suppose we say
I'll let you know later." "And meanwhile?" "Oh, meanwhile we can be sort of engaged. Just the way we've been." "You're sweet, Pat," he murmured, as the car edged into the line of
traffic. "I don't know just how to convey my appreciation, but it's
there!" The buildings drew more closely together; the road was suddenly a
lighted street, and then, almost without realizing it, they were before
Pat's home. Nick walked beside her to the door; he stood facing her
hesitantly. "Good night, Pat," he said huskily. He leaned down, kissing her very
gently, turned, and departed. The girl watched him from the open doorway, following the lights of
his car until they vanished down the street. Dear, sweet Nick! Then
the disturbing memory of that occurrence of the evening returned; she
frowned in perplexity as the thought rose. That was all of a piece with
the puzzling character of him, and the curious veiled references he'd
made. References to what? She didn't know, couldn't imagine. Nick had
said he didn't know either, which added still another quirk to the maze. She thought of Dr. Horker's words. With the thought, she glanced at his
house, adjacent to her own home. A light gleamed in the library; he
was still awake. She closed the door behind her, and darted across the
narrow strip of lawn to his porch. She rang the bell. "Good evening, Dr. Carl," she said as the massive form of Horker
appeared. She puckered her lips impudently at him as she slipped by him
into the house. 6
A Question of Science
"Not that I'm displeased at this visit, Pat," rumbled the Doctor,
seating himself in one of the great chairs by the fireplace, "but I'm
curious. I thought you were dating your ideal tonight, yet here you
are, back alone a little after eleven. How come?" "Oh," said the girl nonchalantly, dropping crosswise in the other
chair, "we decided we needed our beauty sleep." "Then why are you here, you young imp?" "Thought you might be lonesome." "I'll bet you did! But seriously, Pat, what is it? Any trouble?" "No-o," she said dubiously. "No trouble. I just wanted to ask you a few
hypothetical questions. About science." "Go to it, then, and quickly. I was ready to turn in." "Well," said Pat, "about Nick's father. He was a doctor, you said, and
supposed to be cracked. Was he really?" "Humph! That's curious. I just looked up a brochure of his tonight in
the American Medical Journal, after our conversation of this afternoon. Why do you ask that?" "Because I'm interested, of course." "Well, here's what I remember about him, Pat. He was an M.D., all
right, but I see by his paper there--the one I was reading--that he was
on the staff of Northern U. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
He did some work at the Cook County Asylum,
some research work, and there was a bit of talk about his maltreating
the patients. Then, on top of that, he published a paper that medical
men considered crazy, and that started talk of his sanity. That's all I
know." "Then Nick--." "I thought so! So it's come to the point where you're investigating his
antecedents, eh? With an eye to marriage, or what?" "Or what!" snapped Pat. "I was curious to know, naturally." "Naturally." The Doctor gave her a keen glance from his shrewd eyes. "Did you think you detected incipient dementia in your ideal?" "No," said the girl thoughtfully. "Dr. Carl, is there any sort
of craziness that could take an ordinarily shy person and make a
passionate devil of him? I don't mean passionate, either," she added. "Rather cold, ruthless, domineering." "None that I know of," said Horker, watching her closely. "Did this
Nick of yours have one of his masterful moments?" "Worse than that," admitted Pat reluctantly. "We had a near accident,
and it startled both of us, and then suddenly, he was looking at me
like a devil, and then--" She paused. "It frightened me a little." "What'd he do?" demanded Horker sharply. "Nothing." She lied with no hesitation. "Were there any signs of Satyromania?" "I don't know. I never heard of that." "I mean, in plain Americanese, did he make a pass at you?" "He--no, he didn't." "Well, what _did_ he do?" "He just looked at me." Somehow a feeling of disloyalty was rising in
her; she felt a reluctance to betray Nick further. "What did he say, then? And don't lie this time." "He just said--He just looked at my legs and said something about their
being beautiful, and that was all. After that, the look on his face
faded into the old Nick." "Old Nick is right--the impudent scoundrel!" Horker's voice rumbled
angrily. "Well, they're nice legs," said Pat defiantly, swinging them as
evidence. "You've said it yourself. Why shouldn't _he_ say it? What's
to keep him from it?" "The code of a gentleman, for one thing!" "Oh, who cares for your Victorian codes! Anyway, I came here for
information, not to be cross-examined. I want to ask the questions
myself." "Pat, you're a reckless little spit-fire, and you're going to get
burned some day, and deserve it," the Doctor rumbled ominously. "Ask
your fool questions, and then I'll ask mine." "All right," said the girl, still defiant. "I don't guarantee to answer
yours, however." "Well, ask yours, you imp!" "First, then--Is that Satyro-stuff you mentioned intermittent or
continuous?" "It's necessarily intermittent, you numb-skull! The male organism can't
function continuously!" "I mean, does the mania lie dormant for weeks or months, and then flare
up?" "Not at all. It's a permanent mania, like any other psychopathic sex
condition." "Oh," said Pat thoughtfully, with a sense of relief. "Well, go on. What next?" "What are these dual personalities you read about in the papers?" "They're aphasias. An individual forgets his name, and he picks, or is
given, another, if he happens to wander among strangers. He forgets
much of his past experience; the second personality is merely what's
left of the first--sort of a vestige of his normal character. There
isn't any such thing as a dual personality in the sense of two distinct
characters living in one body." "Isn't there?" queried the girl musingly. "Could the second personality
have qualities that the first one lacked?" "Not any more than it could have an extra finger! The second is merely
a split off the first, a forgetfulness, a loss of memory. It couldn't
have _more_ qualities than the whole, or normal, character; it _must_
have fewer." "Isn't that just too interesting!" said Pat in a bantering tone. "All
right, Dr. Carl. It's your turn." "Then what's the reason for all this curiosity about perversions and
aphasias? What's happened to your genius now?" "Oh, I'm thinking of taking up the study of psychiatry," replied the
girl cheerfully. "Aren't you going to answer me seriously?" "No." "Then what's the use of my asking questions?" "I know the right answer to that one. None!" "Pat," said Horker in a low voice, "you're an impudent little hoyden,
and too clever for your own good, but you and your mother are very
precious to me. You know that." "Of course I do, Dr. Carl," said the girl, relenting. "You're a dear,
and I'm crazy about you, and you know that, too." "What I'm trying to say," proceeded the other, "is simply that I'm
trying to help you. I want to help you, if you need help. Do you?" "I guess I don't, Dr. Carl, but you're sweet." "Are you in love with this Nicholas Devine?" "I think perhaps I am," she admitted softly. "And is he in love with you?" "Frankly, could he help being?" "Then there's something about him that worries you. That's it, isn't
it?" "I thought there was, Dr. Carl. I was a little startled by the change
in him right after we had that narrow escape, but I'm sure it was
nothing--just imagination. Honestly, that's all that troubled me." "I believe you, Pat," said the Doctor, his eyes fixed on hers. "But
guard yourself, my dear. Be sure he's what you think he is; be sure you
know him rightly." "He's clean and fine," murmured the girl. "I _am_ sure." "But this puzzling yourself about his character, Pat--I don't like it. Make doubly sure before you permit your feelings to become too deeply
involved. That's only common sense, child, not psychiatry or magic." "I'm sure," repeated Pat. "I'm not puzzled or troubled any more. And
thanks, Dr. Carl. You run along to bed and I'll do likewise." He rose, accompanying her to the door, his face unusually grave. "Patricia," he said, "I want you to think over what I've said. Be
sure, be doubly sure, before you expose yourself to the possibility of
suffering. Remember that, won't you?" "I'll try to. Don't fret yourself about it, Dr. Carl; I'm a hard-boiled
young modern, and it takes a diamond to even scratch me." "I hope so," he said soberly. "Run along; I'll watch until you're
inside." Pat darted across the strip of grass, turned at her door to blow a
goodnight kiss to the Doctor, and slipped in. She tiptoed quietly to
her room, slipped off her dress, and surveyed her long, slim legs in
the mirror. "Why shouldn't he say they were beautiful?" she queried of the image. "I can't see any reason to get excited over a simple compliment like
that." She made a face over her shoulder at the green Buddha above the
fireplace. "And as for you, fat boy," she murmured, "I expect to see you wink at
me tonight. And every night hereafter!" She prepared herself for slumber, slipped into the great bed. She had
hardly closed her lids before the image of a leering face with terrible
bloody eyes flamed out of memory and set her trembling and shuddering. 7
The Red Eyes Return
"I suppose I really ought to meet your friends, Patricia," said Mrs.
Lane, peering out of the window, "but they all seem to call when I'm
not at home." | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
"I'll have some of them call in February," said Pat. "You're not out as
often in February." "Why do you say I'm not out as often in February?" demanded her mother. "I don't see what earthly difference the month makes." "There are fewer days in February," retorted Pat airily. "Facetious brat!" "So I've been told. You needn't worry, though, Mother; I'm sober,
steady, and reliable, and if I weren't, Dr. Carl would see to it that
my associates were." "Yes; Carl is a gem," observed her mother. "By the way, who's this
Nicholas you're so enthusiastic about?" "He's a boy I met." "What's he like?" "Well, he speaks English and wears a hat." "Imp! Is he nice?" "That means is his family acceptable, doesn't it? He hasn't any family." Mrs. Lane shrugged her attractive shoulders. "You're a self-reliant
sort, Patricia, and cool as iced lettuce, like your father. I don't
doubt that you can manage your own affairs, and here comes Claude with
the car." She gave the girl a hasty kiss. "Good-bye, and have a good
time, as I'm sure I shan't with Bret Cutter in the game." Pat watched her mother's trim, amazingly youthful figure as she entered
the car. More like a companion than a parent, she mused; she liked the
independence her mother's attitude permitted her. "Better than being watched like a prize-winning puppy," she thought. "Maybe Dr. Carl as a father would have a detriment or two along with
the advantages. He's a dear, and I'm mad about him, but he does lean to
the nineteenth century as far as parental duties are concerned." She saw Nick's car draw to the curb; as he emerged she waved from the
window and skipped into the hall. She caught up her wrap and bounded
out to meet him just ascending the steps. "Let's go!" she greeted him. She cast an apprehensive glance at his
features, but there was nothing disturbing about him. He gave her a
diffident smile, the shy, gentle smile that had taken her in that first
moment of meeting. This was certainly no one but her own Nick, with no
trace of the unsettling personality of their last encounter. He helped her into the car, seating himself at her side. He leaned over
her, kissing her very tenderly; suddenly she was clinging to him, her
face against the thrilling warmth of his cheek. "Nick!" she murmured. "Nick! You're just safely you, aren't you? I've
been imagining things that I knew couldn't be so!" He slipped his arm caressingly about her, and the pressure of it was
like the security of encircling battlements. The world was outside
the circle of his arms; she was within, safe, inviolable. It was some
moments before she stirred, lifting her pert face with tear-bright eyes
from the obscurity of his shoulder. "So!" she exclaimed, patting the black glow of her hair into composure. "I feel better, Nick, and I hope you didn't mind." "Mind!" he ejaculated. "If you mean that as a joke, Honey, it's far too
subtle for me." "Well, I didn't think you'd mind," said Pat demurely, settling herself
beside him. "Let's be moving, then; Dr. Carl is nearly popping his eyes
out in the window there." The car hummed into motion; she waved a derisive arm at the Doctor's
window by way of indicating her knowledge of his surveillance. "Ought
to teach him a lesson some time," she thought. "One of these fine
evenings I'll give him a real shock." "Where'll we go?" queried Nick, veering skilfully into the swift
traffic of Sheridan Road. "Anywhere!" she said blithely. "Who cares as long as we go together?" "Dancing?" "Why not? Know a good place?" "No." He frowned in thought. "I haven't indulged much." "The Picador?" she suggested. "The music's good, and it's not too
expensive. But it's 'most across town, and besides, Saturday nights
we'd be sure to run into some of the crowd." "What of it?" "I want to dance with you, Nick--all evening. I want to be without
distractions." "Pat, dear! I could kiss you for that." "You will," she murmured softly. They moved aimlessly south with the traffic, pausing momentarily at the
light-controlled intersections, then whirring again to rapid motion. The girl leaned against his arm silently, contentedly; block after
block dropped behind. "Why so pensive, Honey?" he asked after an interval. "I've never known
you so quiet before." "I'm enjoying my happiness, Nick." "Aren't you usually happy?" "Of course, only these last two or three days, ever since our last
date, I've been making myself miserable. I've been telling myself
foolish things, impossible things, and it's only now that I've thrown
off the blues. I'm happy, Dear!" "I'm glad you are," he said. His voice was strangely husky, and he
stared fixedly at the street rushing toward them. "I'm glad you are,"
he repeated, a curious tensity in his tones. "So'm I." "I'll never do anything to make you unhappy, Pat--never. Not--if I can
help it." "You can help it, Nick. You're the one making me happy; please keep
doing it." "I--hope to." There was a queer catch in his voice. It was almost as if
he feared something. "Selah!" said Pat conclusively. She was thinking, "Wrong of me to refer
to that accident. After all it was harmless; just a natural burst of
passion. Might happen to anyone." "Where'll we go?" asked Nick as they swung into the tree-shadowed road
of Lincoln Park. "We haven't decided that." "Anywhere," said the girl dreamily. "Just drive; we'll find a place." "You must know lots of them." "We'll find a new place; we'll discover it for ourselves. It'll mean
more, doing that, than if we just go to one of the old places where
I've been with every boy that ever dated me. You don't want me dancing
with a crowd of memories, do you?" "I shouldn't mind as long as they stayed merely memories." "Well, I should! This evening's to be ours--exclusively ours." "As if it could ever be otherwise!" "Indeed?" said Pat. "And how do you know what memories I might choose
to carry along? Are you capable of inspecting my mental baggage?" "We'll check it at the door. You're traveling light tonight, aren't
you?" "Pest!" she said, giving his cheek an impudent vicious pinch. "Nice,
pleasurable pest!" He made no answer. The car was idling rather slowly along Michigan
Boulevard; half a block ahead glowed the green of a traffic light. Faster traffic flowed around them, passing them like water eddying
about a slow floating branch. Suddenly the car lurched forward. The amber flame of the warning light
had flared out; they flashed across the intersection a split second
before the metallic click of the red light, and a scant few feet before
the converging lines of traffic from the side street swept in with
protesting horns. "Nick!" the girl gasped. "You'll rate yourself a traffic ticket! Why'd
you cut the light like that?" "To lose your guardian angel," he muttered in tones so low she barely
understood his words. Pat glanced back; the lights of a dozen cars showed beyond the barrier
of the red signal. "Do you mean one of those cars was following us? What on earth makes
you think that, and why should it, anyway?" | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
The other made no answer; he swerved the car abruptly off the avenue,
into one of the nondescript side streets. He drove swiftly to the
corner, turned south again, and turned again on some street Pat failed
to identify--South Superior or Grand, she thought. They were scarcely
a block from the magnificence of Michigan Avenue and its skyscrapers,
its brilliant lights, and its teeming night traffic, yet here they
moved down a deserted dark thoroughfare, a street lined with ramshackle
wooden houses intermingled with mean little shops. "Nick!" Pat exclaimed. "Where are we going?" The low voice sounded. "Dancing," he said. He brought the car to the curb; in the silence as the motor died, the
faint strains of a mechanical piano sounded. He opened the car door,
stepped around to the sidewalk. "We're here," he said. Something metallic in his tone drew Pat's eyes to his face. The eyes
that returned her stare were the bloody orbs of the demon of last
Wednesday night! 8
Gateway to Evil
Pat stared curiously at the apparition but made no move to alight from
the vehicle. She was conscious of no fear, only a sense of wonder
and perplexity. After all, this was merely Nick, her own harmless,
adoring Nick, in some sort of mysterious masquerade, and she felt full
confidence in her ability to handle him under any circumstances. "Where's here?" she said, remaining motionless in her place. "A place to dance," came the toneless reply. Pat eyed him; a street car rumbled past, and the brief glow from its
lighted windows swept over his face. Suddenly the visage was that
of Nick; the crimson glare of the eyes was imperceptible, and the
features were the well-known appurtenances of Nicholas Devine, but
queerly tensed and strained. "A trick of the light," she thought, as the street car lumbered away,
and again a faint gleam of crimson appeared. She gazed curiously at the
youth, who stood impassively returning her survey as he held the door
of the car. But the face was the face of Nick, she perceived, probably
in one of his grim moods. She transferred her glance to the building opposite which they had
stopped. The strains of the mechanical piano had ceased; blank,
shaded windows faced them, around whose edges glowed a subdued light
from within. A drab, battered, paintless shack, she thought, dismal
and unpleasant; while she gazed, the sound of the discordant music
recommenced, adding, it seemed, the last unprepossessing item. "It doesn't look very attractive, Nick," she observed dubiously. "I find it so, however." "Then you've been here?" "Yes." "But I thought you said you didn't know any place to go." "This one hadn't occurred to me--then." "Well," she said crisply, "I could have done as well as this with my
eyes closed. It doesn't appeal to me at all, Nick." "Nevertheless, here's where we'll go. You're apt to find
it--interesting." "Look here, Nicholas Devine!" Pat snapped, "What makes you think you
can bully me? No one has ever succeeded yet!" "I said you'd find it interesting." His voice was unchanged; she stared
at him in complete bafflement. "Oh, Nick!" she exclaimed in suddenly softer tones. "What difference
does it make? Didn't I say anywhere would do, so we went together?" She
smiled at him. "This will do if you wish, though really, Honey, I'd
prefer not." "I do wish it," the other said. "All right, Honey," said Pat the faintest trace of reluctance in her
voice as she slipped from the car. "I stick to my bargains." She winced at the intensity of his grip as he took her arm to assist
her. His fingers were like taunt wires biting into her flesh. "Nick!" she cried. "You're hurting me! You're bruising my arm!" He released her; she rubbed the spot ruefully, then followed him to the
door of the mysterious establishment. The unharmonious jangle of the
piano dinned abruptly louder as he swung the door open. Pat entered and
glanced around her at the room revealed. Dull, smoky, dismal--not the least exciting or interesting as yet,
she thought. A short bar paralleled one wall, behind which lounged a
little, thin, nondescript individual with a small mustache. Half a
dozen tables filled the remainder of the room; four or five occupied
by the clientele of the place, as unsavory a group as the girl could
recall having encountered on the hither side of the motion picture
screen. Two women tittered as Nick entered; then with one accord, the
eyes of the entire group fixed on Pat, where she stood drawing her wrap
more closely about her, standing uncomfortably behind her escort. And
the piano tinkled its discords in the far corner. "Same place," said Nick shortly to the bartender, ignoring the glances
of the others. Pat followed him across the room to a door, into a hall,
thence into a smaller room furnished merely with a table and four
chairs. The nondescript man stood waiting in the doorway as Nick took
her wrap and seated her in one of the chairs. "Quart," he said laconically, and the bartender disappeared. Pat stared intently, studiously, into the face of her companion. Nick's
face, certainly; here in full light there was no trace of the red-eyed
horror she had fancied out there in the semi-darkness of the street. Or
was there? Now--when he turned, when the light struck his eyes at an
angle, was that a glint of crimson? Still, the features were Nick's,
only a certain grim intensity foreign to him lurked about the set of
his mouth, the narrowed eye-lids. "Well!" she said. "So this is Paris! What are you trying to do--teach
me capital L--life? And where do we dance?" "In here." "And what kind of quart was that you ordered? You know how little I
drink, and I'm darned particular about even that little." "You'll like this." "I doubt it." "I said you'll like it," he reiterated in flat tones. "I heard you say it." She regarded him with a puzzled frown. "Nick,"
she said suddenly, "I've decided I like you better in your gentle pose;
this masterful attitude isn't becoming, and you can forget what I said
about wishing you'd display it oftener." "You'll like that, too." "Again I doubt it. Nick, dear, don't spoil another evening like that
last one!" "This one won't be like the last one!" "But Honey--" she paused at the entrance of the bartender bearing a
tray, an opened bottle of ginger ale, two glasses of ice, and a flask
of oily amber liquid. He deposited the assortment on the red-checked
table cloth. "Two dollars," he said, pocketed the money and silently retired. "Nicholas," said the girl tartly, "there's enough of that poison for a
regiment." "I don't think so." "Well, I won't drink it, and I won't let you drink it! So now what?" "I think you'll do both." "I don't!" she snapped. "And I don't like this, Nick--the place, or the
liquor, or your attitude, or anything. We're going to leave!" Instead of answering, he pulled the cork from the bottle, pouring a
quantity of the amber fluid into each of the tumblers. To one he added
an equal quantity of ginger ale, and set it deliberately squarely in
front of Pat. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
She frowned at it distastefully, and shook her head. "No," she said. "Not I. I'm leaving." She made no move, however; her eyes met those of her companion, gazing
at her with a cold intentness in their curious amber depths. And
again--was that a flash of red? Impulsively she reached out her hand,
touched his. "Oh, Nick!" she said in soft, almost pleading tones. "Please, Honey--I
don't understand you. Don't you know I love you, Nick? You can hear me
say it: I love you. Don't you believe that?" He continued his cold, intense stare; the grim set of his mouth was as
unrelaxing as marble. Pat felt a shiver of apprehension run through
her, and an almost hypnotic desire to yield herself to the demands of
the inexplicable eyes. She tore her glance away, looking down at the
red checks of the table cloth. "Nick, dear," she said. "I can't understand this. Will you tell me what
you--will you tell me why we're here?" "It is out of your grasp." "But--I know it has something to do with Wednesday night, something
to do with that reluctance of yours, the thing you said you didn't
understand. Hasn't it?" "Do you think so?" "Yes," she said. "I do! And Nick, Honey--didn't I tell you I could
forgive you anything? I don't care what's happened in the past; all I
care for is now, now and the future. Don't you understand me? I've told
you I loved you, Honey! Don't you love me?" "Yes," said the other, staring at her with no change in the fixity of
his gaze. "Then how can you--act like this to me?" "This is my conception of love." "I don't understand!" the girl said helplessly. "I'm completely
puzzled--it's all topsy-turvy." "Yes," he said in impassive agreement. "But what is this, Nick? Please, please--what is this? Are you mad?" She had almost added, "Like your father." "No," he said, still in those cold tones. "This is an experiment." "An experiment!" "Yes. An experiment in evil." "I don't understand," she repeated. "I said you wouldn't." "Do you mean," she asked, struck by a sudden thought, "that discussion
of ours about pure horror? What you said that night last week?" "That!" His voice was icy and contemptuous. "That was the drivel of a
weakling. No; I mean evil, not horror--the living evil that can be so
beautiful that one walks deliberately, with open eyes, into Hell only
to prevent its loss. That is the experiment." "Oh," said Pat, her own voice suddenly cool. "Is that what you wish to
do--experiment on me?" "Yes." "And what am I supposed to do?" "First you are to drink with me." "I see," she said slowly. "I see--dimly. I am a subject, a reagent,
a guinea pig, to provide you material for your writing. You propose
to use me in this experiment of yours--this experiment in evil. All
right!" She picked up the tumbler; impulsively she drained it. The
liquor, diluted as it was, was raw and strong enough to bring tears
smarting to her eyes. Or _was_ it the liquor? "All right!" she cried. "I'll drink it all--the whole bottle!" She
seized the flask, filling her tumbler to the brim, while her companion
watched her with impassive gaze. "You'll have your experiment! And
then, Nicholas Devine, we're through! Do you hear me? Through!" She caught up the tumbler, raised it to her lips, and drained the
searing liquid until she could see her companion's cold eyes regarding
her through the glass of its bottom. 9
Descent into Avernus
Pat slammed the empty tumbler down on the checked table cloth and
buried her face in her hands, choking and gasping from the effects
of the fiery liquor. Her throat burned, her mouth was parched by the
acrid taste, and a conflagration seemed to be raging somewhere within
her. Then she steadied, raised her eyes, and stared straight into the
strange eyes of Nicholas Devine. "Well?" she said fiercely. "Is that enough?" He was watching her coldly as an image or a painting; the intensity of
his gaze was more cat-like than human. She moved her head aside; his
eyes, without apparent shift, were still on hers, like the eyes of a
pictured face. A resurgence of anger shook her at his immobility; his
aloofness seemed to imply that nothing she could do would disturb him. "Wasn't it enough?" she screamed. "Wasn't it? Then look!" She seized the bottle, poured another stream of the oily liquid
into her glass, and raised it to her lips. Again the burning fluid
excoriated her tongue and throat, and then suddenly, the tumbler was
struck from her hand, spilling the rest of its contents on the table. "That is enough," said the icy voice of her companion. "Oh, it is? We'll see!" She snatched at the bottle, still more than
half full. The thin hand of Nicholas Devine wrenched it violently away. "Give me that!" she cried. "You wanted what you're getting!" The warmth
within her had reached the surface now; she felt flushed, excited,
reckless, and desperately angry. The other set the bottle deliberately on the floor; he rose, circled
the table, and stood glaring down at her with that same inexplicable
expression. Suddenly he raised his hand; twisting her black hair in
his fist, he dealt her a stinging blow across the lips half-opened to
scream, then flung her away so violently that she nearly sprawled from
her chair. The scream died in her throat; dazed by the blow, she dropped her head
to the table, while sobs of pain and fear shook her. Coherent thought
had departed, and she knew only that her lips stung, that her clear,
active little mind was caught in a mesh of befuddlement. She couldn't
think; she could only sob in the haze of dizziness that encompassed
her. After a long interval, she raised her head, opened her eyes upon
a swaying, unsteady world, and faced her companion, who had silently
resumed his seat. "Nicholas Devine," she said slowly, speaking as if each word were an
effort, "I hate you!" "Ah!" he said and was again silent. She forced her eyes to focus on his face, while his features danced
vaguely as if smoke flowed between the two of them. It was as if there
were smoke in her mind as well; she made a great effort to rise above
the clouds that bemused her thoughts. "Take me home," she said. "Nicholas, I want to go home." "Why should I?" he asked impassively. "The experiment is hardly begun." "Experiment?" she echoed dully. "Oh, yes--experiment. I'm an
experiment." "An experiment in evil," he said. "Yes--in evil. And I hate you! That's evil enough, isn't it?" He reached down, lifted the bottle to the table, and methodically
poured himself a drink of the liquor. He raised it, watching the oily
swirls in the light, then tipped the fluid to his lips while the girl
gazed at him with a sullen set to her own lips. A tiny crimson spot
had appeared in the corner of her mouth; at its sting, she raised her
hand and brushed it away. She stared as if in unbelief at the small red
smear it left on her fingers. "Nicholas," she said pleadingly, "won't you take me home? Please,
Nicholas, I want to leave here." "Do you hate me?" he asked, a queer twisting smile appearing on his
lips. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
"If you'll take me home I won't," said Pat, snatching through the
rising clouds of dizziness at a straw of logic. "You're going to take
me home, aren't you?" "Let me hear you say you hate me!" he demanded, rising again. The girl
cringed away with a little whimper as he approached. "You hate me,
don't you?" He twisted his hand again in her ebony hair, drawing her face back so
that he stared down at it. "There's blood on your lips," he said as if gloating. "Blood on your
lips!" He clutched her hair more tightly; abruptly he bent over her, pressing
his mouth to hers. Her bruised lips burned with pain at the fierce
pressure of his; she felt a sharp anguish at the impingement of his
teeth. Yet the cloudy pall of dizziness about her was unbroken; she was
too frightened and bewildered for resistance. "Blood on your lips!" he repeated exultingly. "Now is the beauty of
evil!" "Nicholas," she said wearily, clinging desperately to a remnant of
logic, "what do you want of me? Tell me what you want and then let me
go home." "I want to show you the face of evil," he said. "I want you to know the
glory of evil, the loveliness of supreme evil!" He dragged his chair around the table, placing it beside her. Seated,
he drew her into his arms, where she lay passive, too limp and
befuddled to resist. With a sudden movement, he turned her so that her
back rested across his knees, her face gazing up into his. He stared
intently down at her, and the light, shining at an angle into his eyes,
suddenly struck out the red glow that lingered in them. "I want you to know the power of evil," he murmured. "The irresistible,
incomprehensible fascination of it, and the unspeakable pleasures of
indulgence in it." Pat scarcely heard him; she was struggling now in vain against the
overwhelming fumes of the alcohol she had consumed. The room was
wavering around her, and behind her despair and terror, a curious
elation was thrusting itself into her consciousness. "Evil," she echoed vaguely. "Blood on your lips!" he muttered, peering down at her. "Taste the
unutterable pleasure of kisses on bloody lips; drain the sweet anguish
of pain, the fierce delight of suffering!" He bent down; again his lips pressed upon hers, but this time she felt
herself responding. Some still sane portion of her brain rebelled,
but the intoxication of sense and alcohol was dominant. Suddenly she
was clinging to him, returning his kisses, glorying in the pain of her
lacerated lips. A red mist suffused her; she had no consciousness of
anything save the exquisite pain of the kiss, that somehow contrived
to transform itself into an ecstacy of delight. She lay gasping as the
other withdrew his lips. "You see!" he gloated. "You understand! Evil is open to us, and all the
unutterable pleasures of the damned, who cry out in transports of joy
at the bite of the flames of Hell. Do you see?" The girl made no answer, sobbing in a chaotic mingling of pain and
excruciating pleasure. She was incapable of speech or connected
thought; the alcohol beat against her brain with a persistence that
defied resistance. After a moment, she stirred, struggling erect to a
sitting posture. "Evil!" she said dizzily. "Evil and good--what's difference? All in a
lifetime!" She felt a surge of tipsy elation, and then the muffled music of the
mechanical piano, drifting through the closed door, penetrated her
befuddled consciousness. "I want to dance!" she cried. "I'm drunk and I want to dance! Am I
drunk?" she appealed to her companion. "Yes," he said. "I am not! I just want to dance, only it's hot in here. Dance with me,
Nicholas--show me an evil dance! I want to dance with the Devil, and
I will! You're the Devil, name and all! I want to dance with Old Nick
himself!" She rose unsteadily from her chair; instantly the room reeled crazily
about her and she fell sprawling. She felt the grasp of arms beneath
her shoulders, raising her erect; she leaned against the wall and heard
herself laughing wildly. "Funny room!" she said. "Evil room--on pivots!" "You're still to learn," came the toneless voice of Nicholas Devine. "Do you want to see the face of evil?" "Sure!" she said. "Got a good memory for faces!" She realized that he was fumbling with the catch of her dress on her
left shoulder; again some remnant, some vestige of sanity deep in her
brain warned her. "Mustn't," she said vaguely. Then suddenly the catch was open; the dress dropped away around her,
crumpling to a shapeless blob of cloth about her diminutive feet. She
covered her face with her hands, fighting to hold that last, vanishing
vestige of sobriety, while she stood swaying drunkenly against the wall. Then Nicholas Devine's arms were about her again; she felt the sharp
sting of his kisses on her throat. He swung her about, bent her
backwards across the low table; she was conscious of a bewildered
sensation of helplessness and of little else. "Now the supreme glory of evil!" he was muttering in her ear. She felt
his hands on her bare shoulders as he pressed her backward. Then, abruptly, he paused, releasing her. She sat dizzily erect,
following the direction of his gaze. In the half open door stood the
nondescript bartender leering in at them. 10
Rescue from Abaddon
Pat slid dizzily from her perch on the table and sank heavily to
a chair. The interruption of the mustached keeper of this den
of contradictions struck her as extremely humorous; she giggled
hysterically as her wavering gaze perceived the consternation in his
sharp little face. Some forlorn shred of modesty asserted itself, and
she dragged a corner of the red-checked table cloth across her knees. "Get out!" said Nicholas Devine in that voice of rasping metal. "Get
out!" he repeated in unchanging tones. The other made no move to leave. "Yeah?" he said. "Listen, Bud--this
place is respectable, see? You want to pull something like this, you go
upstairs, see? And pay for your room." "Get out!" There was no variation in the voice. "_You_ get out! The both of you, see?" Nicholas Devine stepped slowly toward him; his back, as he advanced
upon the bartender, was toward Pat, yet through the haze of
intoxication, she had an impression of evil red eyes in a chill,
impassive face. "Get out!" The other had no stomach for such an adversary. He backed out of the
door, closing it as he vanished. His voice floated in from the hall. "I'm telling you!" he called. "Clear out!" Nicholas Devine turned back toward the girl. He surveyed her sitting in
her chair; she had dropped her chin to her hand to steady the whirling
of her head. "We'll go," he said. "Come on." "I just want to sit here," she said. "Just let me sit here. I'm tired." "Come on," he repeated. "Why?" she muttered petulantly. "I'm tired." "I want no interruptions. We'll go elsewhere." "Must dress!" she murmured dazedly, "can't go on street without dress." Nicholas Devine swept her frock from its place in the corner, gathered
her wrap from the chair, and flung them over his arm. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
He grasped her
wrist, tugging her to an unsteady standing position. "Come on," he said. "Dress!" He snatched the red checked table cloth from its place, precipitating
bottles, ash-tray, and glasses into an indiscriminate pile, and threw
the stained and odorous fabric across her shoulders. She gathered it
about her like a toga; it hung at most points barely below her waist,
but it satisfied the urge of her muddled mind for a covering of some
sort. "We'll go through the rear," her companion said. "Into the alley. I
want no trouble with that rat in the bar--yet!" He still held Pat's wrist; she stumbled after him as he dragged her
into the darkness of the hall. They moved through it blindly to a door
at the far end; Nicholas swung it open upon a dim corridor flanked by
buildings on either side, with a strip of star-sprinkled sky above. Pat's legs were somehow incapable of their usual lithe grace; she
failed to negotiate the single step, and crashed heavily to the
concrete paving. The shock and the cooler air of the open steadied her
momentarily; she felt no pain from her bruised knees, but a temporary
rift in the fog that bound her mind. She gathered the red-checked cloth
more closely about her shoulders as her companion, still clutching her
wrist, jerked her violently to her feet. They moved into the gulch of the alley, and here she found difficulty
in following. Her tiny high-heeled pumps slipped at every step on
the uneven cobbles of the paving, and the unsteady footing made her
lurch and stumble until the dusty stretch of the alley was a writhing
panorama of shadows and lighted windows and stars. Nicholas Devine
turned an impatient glare on her, and here in the semi-darkness, his
face was again the face of the red-eyed demon. She dragged him to a
halt, laughing strangely. "There it is!" she cried, pointing at him with her free hand. He turned
again, staring at her with grim features. "What?" "There! Your face--the face of evil!" Again she laughed hysterically. The other stepped to her side; the disturbing eyes were inches from
her own. He raised his hand as she laughed, slapped her sharply, so
that her head reeled. He seized her shoulders, shaking her until the
checkered cloth billowed like a flag in a wind. "Now come!" he muttered. But the girl, laughing no longer, leaned pale and weak against a
low board fence. Her limbs seemed paralyzed, and movement was quite
impossible. She was conscious of neither the blow nor the shaking, but
only of a devastating nausea and an all-encompassing weakness. She bent
over the fence; she was violently ill.
Then the nausea had vanished, and a weariness, a strange lassitude, was
all that remained. Nicholas Devine stood over her; suddenly he pressed
her body to him in a convulsive embrace, so that her head dropped back,
and his face loomed above her, obliterating the stars. "Ah!" he said. He seemed about to kiss her when a
sound--voices--filtered out of somewhere in the maze of dark courts
and littered yards along the alley. He released her, seized her wrist,
and once more she was stumbling wretchedly behind him over the uneven
surface of the cobblestones. A numbness had come over her; consciousness burned very low as she
wavered doggedly along through the darkness. She perceived dimly that
they were approaching the end of the alley; the brighter glow of the
street loomed before them, and a passing motor car cut momentary
parallel shafts of luminescence across the opening. Nicholas Devine slowed his pace, still clutching her wrist in a cold
grip; he paused, moving cautiously toward the corner of the building. He peered around the edge of the structure, surveying the now deserted
street, while Pat stood dully behind him, incapable alike of thought or
voluntary movement, clutching desperately at the dirty cloth that hung
about her shoulders. Her companion finished his survey; apparently satisfied that progress
was safe, he dragged her after him, turning toward the corner beyond
which his car was parked. The girl staggered behind him with
diminishing vigor; consciousness was very nearly at the point of
disappearance, and her steps were wavering unsteadily, and doggedly
slow. She dragged heavily on his arm; he gave a gesture of impatience
at her weakness. "Come on!" he growled. "We're just going to the corner." His voice rose
slightly in pitch, still sounding harsh as rasping metals. "There still
remains the ultimate evil!" he said. "There is still a depth of beauty
unplumbed, a pain whose exquisite pleasure is yet to find!" They approached the corner; abruptly Nicholas Devine drew back as two
figures came unexpectedly into view from beyond it. He turned back
toward the alley-way, dragging the girl in a dizzy circle. He took a
few rapid steps. But Pat was through, exhausted. At his first step she stumbled and
sprawled, dragging prone behind him. He released her hand and turned
defiantly to face the approaching men, while the girl lying on the
pavement struggled to a sitting posture with her back against the wall. She turned dull, indifferent eyes on the scene, then was roused to a
somewhat higher pitch of interest by the sound of a familiar voice. "There he is! I told you it was his car." Dr. Horker! She struggled for clarity of thought; she realized dimly
that she ought to feel relief, happiness--but all she could summon
was a faint quickening of interest, or rather, a diminution of the
lassitude that held her. She drew the rag of a table cloth about her
and huddled against the wall, watching. The Doctor and some strange
man, burly and massive in the darkness, dashed upon them, while
Nicholas Devine waited, his red-orbed face a demoniac picture of cold
contempt. Then the Doctor glanced at her huddled, bedraggled figure;
she saw his face aghast, incredulous, as he perceived the condition of
her clothing. "Pat! My God, girl! What's happened? Where've you been?" She found a hidden reserve somewhere within her. Her voice rose, shrill
and hysterical. "We've been in Hell!" she said. "You came to take me back, didn't you? Orpheus and Eurydice!" She laughed. "Dr. Orpheus Horker!" The Doctor flashed her another incredulous glance and a grim and very
terrible expression flamed in his face. He turned toward Nicholas
Devine, his hands clenching, his mouth twisting without utterance,
with no sound save a half-audible snarl. Then he spoke, a low, grating
phrase flung at his thick-set companion. "Bring the car," was all he said. The man lumbered away toward the
corner, and he turned again toward Nicholas Devine, who faced him
impassively. Suddenly his fist shot out; he struck the youth or demon
squarely between the red eyes, sending him reeling back against the
building. Then the Doctor turned, bending over Pat; she felt the
pressure of his arms beneath knees and shoulders. He was carrying her
toward a car that drew up at the curb; he was placing her gently in the
back seat. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
Then, without a glance at the figure still leaning against
the building, he swept from the sidewalk the dark mass that was Pat's
dress and her wrap, and re-entered the car beside her. "Shall I turn him in?" asked the man in the front seat. "We can't afford the publicity," said the Doctor, adding grimly, "I'll
settle with him later." Pat's head lurched as the car started; she was losing consciousness,
and realized it vaguely, but she retained one impression as the vehicle
swung into motion. She perceived that the face of the lone figure
leaning against the building, a face staring at her with horror and
unbelief, was no longer the visage of the demon of the evening, but
that of her own Nick. 11
Wreckage
Pat opened her eyes reluctantly, with the impression that something
unpleasant awaited her return to full consciousness. Something, as yet
she could not recall just what, had happened to her; she was not even
sure where she was awakening. However, her eyes surveyed her own familiar room; there opposite the
bed grinned the jade Buddha on his stand on the mantel--the one that
Nick had--Nick! A mass of troubled, terrible recollections thrust
themselves suddenly into consciousness. She visioned a medley of
disturbing pictures, as yet disconnected, unassorted, but waiting only
the return of complete wakefulness. And she realized abruptly that her
head ached miserably, that her mouth was parched, that twinges of pain
were making themselves evident in various portions of her anatomy. She
turned her head and caught a glimpse of a figure at the bed-side; her
startled glance revealed Dr. Horker, sitting quietly watching her. "Hello, Doctor," she said, wincing as her smile brought a sharp pain
from her lips. "Or should I say, Good morning, Judge?" "Pat!" he rumbled, his growling tones oddly gentle. "Little Pat! How do
you feel, child?" "Fair," she said. "Just fair. Dr. Carl, what happened to me last night? I can't seem to remember--Oh!" A flash of recollection pierced the obscure muddle. She remembered
now--not all of the events of that ghastly evening, but enough. Too
much! "Oh!" she murmured faintly. "Oh, Dr. Carl!" "Yes," he nodded. "'Oh!' --and would you mind very much telling me what
that 'Oh' of yours implies?" "Why--". She paused shuddering, as one by one the events of that
sequence of horrors reassembled themselves. "Yes, I'd mind very
much," she continued. "It was nothing--" She turned to him abruptly. "Oh, it was, though, Dr. Carl! It was horrible, unspeakable,
incomprehensible!--But I can't talk about it! I can't!" "Perhaps you're right," said the Doctor mildly. "Don't you really want
to discuss it?" "I do want to," admitted the girl after a moment's reflection. "I want
to--but I can't. I'm afraid to think of all of it." "But what in Heaven's name did you do?" "We just started out to go dancing," she said hesitatingly. "Then, on
the way to town, Nick--changed. He said someone was following us." "Some one was," said Horker. "_I_ was, with Mueller. That Nick of yours
has the Devil's own cleverness!" "Yes," the girl echoed soberly. "The Devil's own!--Who's Mueller, Dr. Carl?" "He's a plain-clothes man, friend of mine. I treated him once. What do
you mean by changed?" "His eyes," she said. "And his mouth. His eyes got reddish and
terrible, and his mouth got straight and grim. And his voice turned
sort of--harsh." "Ever happen before, that you know of?" "Once. When--" She paused. "Yes. Last Wednesday night, when you came over to ask those questions
about pure science. What happened then?" "We went to a place to dance." "And that's the reason, I suppose," rumbled the Doctor sardonically,
"that I found you wandering about the streets in a table cloth,
step-ins, and a pair of hose! That's why I found you on the verge of
passing out from rotten liquor, and looking like the loser of a battle
with an airplane propellor! What happened to your face?" "My face? What's wrong with it?" The Doctor rose from his chair and seized the hand-mirror from her
dressing table. "Look at it!" he commanded, passing her the glass. Pat gazed incredulously at the reflection the surface presented; a dark
bruise colored her cheek, her lips were swollen and discolored, and her
chin bore a jagged scratch. She stared at the injuries in horror. "Your knees are skinned, too," said Horker. "Both of them." Pat slipped one pajamaed limb from the covers, drawing the pants-leg up
for inspection. She gasped in startled fright at the great red stain on
her knee. "That's mercurochrome," said the Doctor. "I put it there." "_You_ put it there. How did I get home last night, Dr. Carl? How did I
get to bed?" "I'm responsible for that, too. I put you to bed." He leaned forward. "Listen, child--your mother knows nothing about this as yet. She wasn't
home when I brought you in, and she's not awake yet this morning. We'll tell her you had an automobile accident; explain away those
bruises.--And now, how did you get them?" "I fell, I guess. Two or three times." "That bruise on your cheek isn't from falling." The girl shuddered. Now in the calm light of morning, the events of
last night seemed doubly horrible; she doubted her ability to believe
them, so incredible did they seem. She was at a loss to explain even
her own actions, and those of Nicholas Devine were simply beyond
comprehension, a chapter from some dark and blasphemous book of ancient
times--the Kabbala or the Necronomicon. "What happened, Pat?" queried the Doctor gently. "Tell me," he urged
her. "I--can't explain it," she said doubtfully. "He took me to that place,
but drinking the liquor was my own fault. I did it out of spite because
I saw he didn't--care for me. And then--" She fell silent. "Yes? And then?" "Well--he began to talk about the beauty of evil, the delights of evil,
and his eyes glared at me, and--I don't understand it at all, Dr. Carl,
but all of a sudden I was--yielding. Do you see?" "I see," he said gently, soberly. "Suddenly I seemed to comprehend what he meant--all that about the
supreme pleasure of evil. And I was sort of--swept away. The dress--was
his fault, but I--somehow I'd lost the power to resist. I guess I was
drunk." "And the bruises? And your cut lips?" queried the Doctor grimly. "Yes," she said in a low voice. "He--struck me. After a while I didn't
care. He could have--would have done other things, only we were
interrupted, and had to leave. And that's all, Dr. Carl." "Isn't that enough?" he groaned. "Pat, I should have killed the fiend
there!" "I'm glad you didn't." "Do you mean to say you'd care?" "I--don't know." "Are you intimating that you still love him?" "No," she said thoughtfully. "No, I don't love him, but--Dr. Carl,
there's something inexplicable about this. There's something I don't
understand, but I'm certain of one thing!" "What's that?" "That it wasn't Nick--not _my_ Nick--who did those things to me last
night. It wasn't, Dr. Carl!" "Pat, you're being a fool!" "I know it. But I'm sure of it, Dr. Carl. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
I _know_ Nick; I loved him,
and I know he couldn't have done--that. Not the same gentle Nick that I
had to beg to kiss me!" "Pat," said the Doctor gently, "I'm a psychiatrist; it's my business
to know all the rottenness that can hide in a human being. My office
is the scene of a parade of misfits, failures, potential criminals,
lunatics, and mental incompetents. It's a nasty, bitter side I see of
life, but I know that side--and I tell you this fellow is dangerous!" "Do you understand this, Dr. Carl?" He reached over, taking her hand in his great palm with its long,
curious delicate fingers. "I have my theory, Pat. The man's a sadist,
a lover of cruelty, and there's enough masochism in any woman to make
him terribly dangerous. I want your promise." "About what?" "I want you to promise never to see him again." The girl turned serious eyes on his face; he noted with a shock of
sympathy that they were filled with tears. "You warned me I'd get burned playing with fire," she said. "You did,
didn't you?" "I'm an old fool, Honey. If I'd believed my own advice, I'd have seen
that this never happened to you." He patted her hand. "Have I your
promise?" She averted her eyes. "Yes," she murmured. He winced as he perceived
that the tears were on her cheeks. "So!" he said, rising. "The patient can get out of bed when she feels
like it--and don't forget that little fib we've arranged for your
mother's peace of mind." She stared up at him, still clinging to his hand. "Dr. Carl," she said, "are you sure--quite sure--you're right about
him? Couldn't there be a chance that you're mistaken--that it's
something your psychiatry has overlooked or never heard of?" "Small chance, Pat dear." "But a chance?" "Well, neither I nor any reputable medic claims to know everything, and
the human mind's a subtle sort of thing." 12
Letter from Lucifer
"I'm glad!" Pat told herself. "I'm glad it's over, and I'm glad I
promised Dr. Carl--I guess I was mighty close to the brink of disaster
that time." She examined the injuries on her face, carefully powdered to conceal
the worst effects from her mother. The trick had worked, too; Mrs.
Lane had delivered herself of an excited lecture on the dangers of
the gasoline age, and then thanked Heaven it was no worse. Well, Pat
reflected, she had good old Dr. Carl to thank for the success of the
subterfuge; he had broken the news very skillfully, set the stage for
her appearance, and calmed her mother's apprehensions of scars. And
Pat, surveying her image in the glass above her dressing-table, could
see for herself the minor nature of the hurts. "Scars--pooh!" she observed. "A bruised cheek, a split lip, a skinned
chin. All I need is a black eye, and I guess I'd have had that in five
minutes more, and perhaps a cauliflower ear into the bargain." But her mood was anything but flippant; she was fighting off the time
when her thoughts had of necessity to face the unpleasant, disturbing
facts of the affair. She didn't want to think of the thing at all;
she wanted to laugh it off and forget it, yet she knew that for an
impossibility. The very desire to forget she recognized as a coward's
wish, and she resented the idea that she was cowardly. "Forget the wise-cracks," she advised her image. "Face the thing and
argue it out; that's the only way to be satisfied." She rose with a little grimace of pain at the twinge from her bruised
knees, and crossed to the chaise lounge beside the far window. She
settled herself in it and resumed her cogitations. She was feeling more
or less herself again; the headache of the morning had nearly vanished,
and aside from the various aches and a listless fagged-out sensation,
she approximated her normal self. Physically, that is; the shadow of
that other catastrophe, the one she hesitated to face, was another
matter. "I'm lucky to get off this easily," she assured herself, "after going
on a bust like that one, like a lumberjack with his pay in his pocket." She shook her head in mournful amazement. "And I'm Patricia Lane, the
girl whom Billy dubbed 'Pat the Impeccable'! Impeccable! Wandering
through alleys in step-ins and a table cloth--getting beaten up in a
drunken brawl--passing out on rot-gut liquor--being carried home and
put to bed! Not impeccable; incapable's the word! I belong to Dr.
Carl's parade of incompetents." She continued her rueful reflections. "Well, item one is, I don't love
Nick any more. I couldn't now!" she flung at the smiling green buddha
on the mantel. "That's over; I've promised." Somehow there was not satisfaction in the memory of that promise. It
was logical, of course; there wasn't anything else to do now, but
still--
"That _wasn't_ Nick!" she told herself. "That wasn't _my_ Nick. I guess
Dr. Carl is right, and he's a depressed what-ever-it-was; but if he's
crazy, so am I! He had me convinced last night; I understood what he
meant, and I felt what he wanted me to feel. If he's crazy, I am too; a
fine couple we are!" She continued. "But it wasn't Nick! I saw his face when we drove off,
and it had changed again, and that was Nick's face, not the other. And
he was sorry; I could see he was sorry, and the other could never have
regretted it--not ever! The other isn't--quite human, but Nick is." She paused, considering the idea. "Of course," she resumed, "I might
have imagined that change at the end. I was hazy and quavery, and it's
the last thing I _do_ remember; that must have been just before I
passed out." And then, replying to her own objection, "But I _didn't_ imagine it! I
saw it happen once before, that other night when--Well, what difference
does it make, anyway? It's over, and I've given my promise." But she was unable to dismiss the matter as easily as that. There
was some uncanny, elusive element in it that fascinated her. Cruel,
terrible, demoniac, he might have been; he had also been kind, lovable,
and gentle. Yet Dr. Carl had told her that split personalities could
contain no characteristics that were not present in the original,
normal character. Was cruelty, then, a part of kindness? Was cruelty
merely the lack of kindness, or, cynical thought, was kindness but the
lack of cruelty? Which qualities were positive in the antagonistic
phases of Nicholas Devine's individuality, and which negative? Was the
gentle, lovable, but indubitably weaker character the split, and the
demon of last evening his normal self? Or vice-versa? Or were both of
these fragmentary entities, portions of some greater personality as yet
unapparent to her? The whole matter was a mystery; she shrugged in helpless perplexity. "I don't think Dr. Carl knows as much about it as he says," she mused. "I don't think psychiatry or any other science knows that much about
the human soul. Dr. Carl doesn't even believe in a soul; how could he
know anything about it, then?" She frowned in puzzlement and gave up
the attempt to solve the mystery. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
The hours she had spent in her room, at her mother's insistence, began
to pall; she didn't feel particularly ill--it was more of a languor, a
depressed, worn-out feeling. Her mother, of course, was out somewhere;
she felt a desire for human companionship, and wondered if the Doctor
might by some chance drop in. It seemed improbable; he had his regular
Sunday afternoon routine of golf at the Club, and it took a real
catastrophe to keep him away from that. She sighed, stretched her legs,
rose from her position on the chaise lounge, and wandered toward the
kitchen where Magda was doubtless to be found. It was in the dusk of the rear hall that the first sense of her loss
came over her. Heretofore her renunciation of Nicholas Devine was a
rational thing, a promise given but not felt; but now it was suddenly a
poignant reality. Nick was gone, she realized; he was out of her world,
irrevocably sundered from her. She paused at the top of the rear flight
of stairs, considering the matter. "He's gone! I won't see him ever again." The thought was appalling; she
felt already a premonition of loneliness to come, of an emptiness in
her world, a lack that nothing could replace. "I shouldn't have promised Dr. Carl," she mused, knowing that even
without that promise her course must still have been the same. "I
shouldn't have, not until I'd talked to Nick--my own Nick." And still, she reflected forlornly, what difference did it make? She
had to give him up; she couldn't continue to see him not knowing at
what instant that terrible caricature of him might appear to torment
her. But he might have explained, she argued miserably, answering
her own objection at once--he's said he couldn't explain, didn't
understand. The thing was at an impasse. She shook her shining black head despondently, and descended the dusky
well of the stairs to the kitchen. Magda was there clattering among her
pots and pans; Pat entered quietly and perched on the high stool by the
long table. Old Magda, who had warmed her babyhood milk and measured
out her formula, gave her a single glance and continued her work. "Sorry about the accident, I was," she said without looking up. "Thanks," responded the girl. "I'm all right again." "You don't look it." "I feel all right." She watched the mysterious, alchemistic mixing of a pastry, and thought
of the vast array of them that had come from Magda's hands. As far back
as she could remember she had perched on this stool observing the same
mystic culinary rites. Suddenly another memory rose out of the grave of forgetfulness and
went gibbering across her world. She remembered the stories Magda used
to tell her, frightening stories of witchcraft and the evil eye, tales
out of an older region and a more credulous age. "Magda," she asked, "did you ever see a devil?" "Not I, but I've talked with them that had." "Didn't you ever see one?" "No." The woman slid a pan into the oven. "I saw a man once, when I was
a tot, possessed by a devil." "You did? How did he look?" "He screamed terrible, then he said queer things. Then he fell down and
foam came out of his mouth." "Like a fit?" "The Priest, he said it was a devil. He came and prayed over him, and
after a while he was real quiet, and then he was all right." "Possessed by a devil," said Pat thoughtfully. "What happened to him?" "Dunno." "What queer things did he say?" "Wicked things, the Priest said. I couldn't tell! I was a tot." "Possessed by a devil!" Pat repeated musingly. She sat immersed in
thoughts on the high stool while Magda clattered busily about. The
woman paused finally, turning her face to the girl. "What you so quiet about, Miss Pat?" "I was just thinking." "You get your letter?" "Letter? What letter? Today's Sunday." "Special delivery. The girl, she put it in the hall." "I didn't know anything about it. Who'd write me a special?" She slipped off the high stool and proceeded to the front hall. The
letter was there, solitary on the salver that always held the mail. She
picked it up, examining the envelope in sudden startled amazement and
more than a trace of illogical exultation. For the letter, post-marked that same morning, was addressed in the
irregular script of Nicholas Devine! 13
Indecision
Pat turned the envelope dubiously in her hands, while a maze of chaotic
thoughts assailed her. She felt almost a sensation of guilt as if
she were in some manner violating the promise given to Dr. Horker;
she felt a tinge of indignation that Nicholas Devine should dare
communicate with her at all, and she felt too that queer exultation,
an inexplicable pleasure, a feeling of secret triumph. She slipped the
letter in the pocket of her robe and padded quietly up the stairs to
her own room. Strangely, her loneliness had vanished. The great house, empty now
save for herself and Magda in the distant kitchen, was no longer a
place of solitude; the discovery of the letter, whatever its contents,
had changed the deserted rooms into chambers teeming with her own
excitements, trepidations, doubts, and hopes. Even hopes, she admitted
to herself, though hopes of what nature she was quite unable to say. What _could_ Nick write that had the power to change things? Apologies? Pleas? Promises? None of these could alter the naked, horrible facts of
the predicament. Nevertheless, she was almost a-tremble with expectation as she skipped
hastily into her own room, carefully closed the door, and settled
herself by the west windows. She drew the letter from her pocket, and
then, with a tightening of her throat, tore open the envelope, slipping
out the several pages of scrawled paper. Avidly she began to read. "I don't know whether you'll ever see this"--the missive began
without salutation--"and I'll not blame you, Pat dear, if you do
return it unopened. There's nothing you can do that wouldn't be
justified, nor can you think worse of me than I do of myself. And
that's a statement so meaningless that even as I wrote it, I could
anticipate its effect on you. "Pat--How am I going to convince you that I'm sincere? Will you
believe me when I write that I love you? Can you believe that I
love you tenderly, worshipfully--reverently? "You can't; I know you can't after that catastrophe of last night. But it's true, Pat, though the logic of a Spinoza might fail to
convince you of it. "I don't know how to write you this. I don't know whether you want
to hear what I could say, but I know that I must try to say it. Not apologies, Pat--I shouldn't dare approach you for so poor a
reason as that--but a sort of explanation. You more than any one
in the world are entitled to that explanation, if you want to hear
it. "I can't write it to you, Pat; it's something I can only make you
believe by telling you--something dark and rather terrible. But
please, Dear, believe that I mean you no harm, and that I plan no
subterfuge, when I suggest that you see me. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
It will be, I think,
for the last time. "Tonight, and tomorrow night, and as many nights to follow as I
can, I'll sit on a bench in the park near the place where I kissed
you that first time. There will be people passing there, and cars
driving by; you need fear nothing from me. I choose the place to
bridle my own actions, Pat; nothing can happen while we sit there
in the view of the world. "To write you more than this is futile. If you come, I'll be
there; if you don't, I'll understand. "I love you." The letter was signed merely "Nick." She stared at the signature with
feelings so confused that she forebore any attempt to analyze them. "But I can't go," she mused soberly. "I've promised Dr. Carl. Or at
least, I can't go without telling him." That last thought, she realized, was a concession. Heretofore she
hadn't let herself consider the possibility of seeing Nicholas Devine
again, and now suddenly she was weakening, arguing with herself about
the ethics of seeing him. She shook her head decisively. "Won't do, Patricia Lane!" she told herself. "Next thing, you'll be
slipping away without a word to anybody, and coming home with two black
eyes and a broken nose. Won't do at all!" She dropped her eyes to the letter. "Explanations," she reflected. "I
guess Dr. Carl would give up a hole-in-one to hear that explanation. And I'd give more than that." She shook her head regretfully. "Nothing
to do about it, though. I promised." The sun was slanting through the west windows; she sat watching the
shadows lengthen in the room, and tried to turn her thoughts into more
profitable channels. This was the first Sunday in many months that
she had spent alone in the house; it was a custom for herself and her
mother to spend the afternoon at the club. The evening too, as a rule;
there was invariably bridge for Mrs. Lane, and Pat was always the
center of a circle of the younger members. She wondered dreamily what
the crowd thought of her non-appearance, reflecting that her mother
had doubtless enlarged on Dr. Carl's story of an accident. Dr. Carl
wouldn't say much, simply that he'd ordered her to stay at home. But
sooner or later, Nick would hear the accident story; she wondered what
he'd think of it. She caught herself up sharply. "My ideas wander in circles," she
thought petulantly. "No matter where I start, they curve around back to
Nick. It won't do; I've got to stop it." Nearly time for the evening meal, she mused, watching the sun as it
dropped behind Dr. Horker's house. She didn't feel much like eating;
there was still a remnant of the exhausted, dragged-out sensation,
though the headache that had accompanied her awakening this morning had
disappeared. "I know what the morning after feels like, anyway," she reflected with
a wry little smile. "Everybody ought to experience it once, I suppose. I wonder how Nick--"
She broke off abruptly, with a shrug of disgust. She slipped the letter
back into its envelope, rose and deposited it in the drawer of the
night-table. She glanced at the clock ticking on its shiny top. "Six o'clock," she murmured. Nick would be sitting in the park in
another two hours or so. She had a twinge of sympathy at the thought of
his lone vigil; she could visualize the harried expression on his face
when the hours passed without her arrival. "Can't be helped," she told herself. "He's no right to ask for
anything of me after last night. He knows that; he said so in his
letter." She suppressed an impulse to re-read that letter, and trotted
deliberately out of the room and down the stairs. Magda had set the
table in the breakfast room; it was far cozier than the great dining
room, especially without her mother's company. And the maid was away;
the breakfast room simplified serving, as well. She tried valorously to eat what Magda supplied, but the food failed
to tempt her. It wasn't so much her physical condition, either; it
was--She clenched her jaws firmly; was the memory of Nicholas Devine to
haunt her forever? "Pat Lane," she said in admonition, "you're a crack-brained fool! Just
because a man kicks you all over the place is no reason to let him
become an obsession." She drank her coffee, feeling the sting of its heat on her injured
lips. She left the table, tramped firmly to her room, and began
defiantly to read. The effort was useless; half a dozen times she
forced her attention to the page only to find herself staring vaguely
into space a moment or two later. She closed the book finally with an
irritable bang, and vented her restlessness in pacing back and forth. "This house is unbearable!" she snapped. "I'm not going to stay shut up
here like a jail-bird in solitary confinement. A walk in the open is
what I need, and that's what I'll have." She glanced at the clock; seven-thirty. She tore off her robe
pettishly, flung out of her pajamas, and began to dress with angry
determination. She refused to think of a lonely figure that might even
now be sitting disconsolately on a bench in the near-by park. She disguised her bruised cheek as best she could, dabbed a little
powder on the abrasion on her chin, and tramped militantly down the
stairs. She caught up her wrap, still lying where the Doctor had
tossed it last night, and moved toward the door, opening it and nearly
colliding with the massive figure of Dr. Horker! "Well!" boomed the Doctor as she started back in surprise. "You're
pretty spry for a patient. Think you were going out?" "Yes," said Pat defiantly. "Not tonight, child! I left the Club early to take a look at you." "I am perfectly all right. I want to go for a walk." "No walk. Doctor's orders." "I'm of legal age!" she snapped. "I want to go for a walk. Do I go?" "You do not." The Doctor placed his great form squarely in the doorway. "Not unless you can lick me, my girl, and I'm pretty tough. I put you
to bed last night, and I can do as much tonight. Shall I?" Pat backed into the hall. "You don't have to," she said sullenly. "I'm
going there myself." She flung her wrap angrily to a chair and stalked
up the stairs. "Good night, spit-fire," he called after her. "I'll read down here
until your mother comes home." The girl stormed into her room in anger that she knew to be illogical. "I won't be watched like a problem child!" she told herself viciously. "I know damn well what he thought--and I wasn't going to meet Nick! I
wasn't at all!" She calmed suddenly, sat on the edge of her bed and kicked off her
pumps. It had occurred to her that Nick had written his intention to
wait for her in the park tomorrow night as well, and Dr. Horker's
interference had confirmed her in a determination to meet him. 14
Bizarre Explanation
"I won't be bullied!" Pat told herself, examining her features in the
mirror. The two day interval had faded the discoloration of her cheek
to negligible proportions, and all that remained as evidence of the
violence of Saturday night was the diminishing mark on her chin. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
Of
course, her knees--but they were covered; most of the time, at least. She gave herself a final inspection, and somewhere below a clock boomed. "Eight o'clock," she remarked to her image; "Time to be leaving, and it
serves Dr. Carl right for his high-handed actions last night. I won't
be bullied by anybody." She checked herself as her mind had almost
added, "Except Nick." True or not, she didn't relish the thought; the
recent recollections it roused were too disturbing. She tossed a stray wisp of black hair from her forehead and turned to
the door. She heard her mother's voice as she descended the stairs. "Are you going out, Patricia? Do you think it wise?" "I am perfectly all right. I want to go for a walk." "I know, Dear; it was largely your appearance I meant." She surveyed
the girl with a critical eye. "Nice enough, except for that little spot
on your chin, and will you never learn to keep your hair away from that
side of your forehead? One can never do a bob right; why don't you let
it grow out like the other girls?" "Makes me individual," replied Pat, moving toward the outer door. "I
won't be late at all," she added. On the porch she cast a cautious glance at Dr. Horker's windows, but
his great figure was nowhere evident. Only a light burning in the
library evinced his presence. She gave a sigh of relief, and tiptoed
down the steps to the sidewalk, and moved hastily away from the range
of his watchful eyes. No sooner had she sighted the park than doubts began to torment her. Suppose this were some trick of Nicholas Devine's, to trap her into
some such situation as that of Saturday night. Even suppose that she
found him the sweet personality that she had loved, might that also
be a trick? Mightn't he be trusting to his ability to win her over, to
the charm she had confessed to him that he held for her? Couldn't he
be putting his faith in his own amorous skill, planning some specious
explanation to win her forgiveness only to use her once more as the
material for some horrible experiment? And if he were, would she be
able to prevent herself from yielding? "Forewarned is fore-armed," she told herself. "I'll not put up such a
feeble resistance this time, knowing what I now know. And it's only
fair of me to listen to his explanation, if he really has one." She was reassured by the sight of the crowded park; groups strolled
along the walks, and an endless procession of car-headlights marked the
course of the roadway. Nothing could happen in such an environment;
they'd be fortunate even to have an opportunity for confidential
talk. She waited for the traffic lights, straining her eyes to locate
Nicholas Devine; at the click of the signal she darted across the
street. She moved toward the lake; here was the spot, she was sure. She glanced
about with eagerness unexpected even to herself, peering through the
shadow-shot dusk. He wasn't there, she concluded, with a curious sense
of disappointment; her failure to appear last night had disheartened
him; he had abandoned his attempt. Then she saw him. He sat on a bench isolated from the rest in a
treeless area overlooking the lake. She saw his disconsolate figure,
his chin on his hand, staring moodily over the waters. A tremor ran
through her, she halted deliberately, waiting until every trace of
emotion had vanished, then she advanced, standing coolly beside him. For a moment he was unaware of her presence; he sat maintaining his
dejected attitude without glancing at her. Suddenly some slight
movement, the flutter of her skirt, drew his attention; he turned
sharply, gazing directly into her face. "Pat!" He sprang to his feet. "Pat! is it you--truly you? Or are you
one of these visions that have been plaguing me for hours?" "I'm real," she said, returning his gaze with a studied coolness in her
face. She made no other move; her cold composure disconcerted him, and
he winced, flushed, and moved nervously aside as she seated herself. He
dropped beside her; he made no attempt to touch her, but sat watching
her in silence for so long a time that she felt her composure ebbing. There was a hungry, defeated look about him; there was a wistfulness,
a frustration, in his eyes that seemed about to tug tears from her own
eyes. Abruptly she dropped her gaze from his face. "Well?" she said finally in a small voice, and as he made no reply,
"I'm here." "Are you really, Pat? Are you truly here?" he murmured, still watching
her avidly. "I--I still don't believe it. I waited here for hours and
hours last night, and I'd given up hope for tonight, or any night. But
I would have come again and again." She started as he bent suddenly toward her, but he was merely examining
her face. She saw the gleam of horror in his expression as his eyes
surveyed the faintly visible bruise on her cheek, the red mark on her
chin. "Oh my God, Pat!" His words were barely audible. "Oh my God!" he
repeated, drawing away from her and resuming the attitude of desolation
in which her arrival had found him. "I've hoped it wasn't true!" "What wasn't?" She was keeping her voice carefully casual; this
miserable contrition of Nick's was tugging at her rather too powerfully
for complete safety. "What I remembered. What I saw just now." "You hoped it wasn't true?" she queried in surprise. "But you did it." "_I_ did it, Pat? Do you think _I_ could have done it?" "But you did!" Her voice had taken on a chill inflection; the memory of
those indignities came to steel her against him. "Pat, do you think I could assault your daintiness, or maltreat the
beauty I worship? Didn't anything occur to you? Didn't anything seem
queer about--about that ghastly evening?" "Queer!" she echoed. "That's certainly a mild word to use, isn't it?" "But I mean--hadn't you any idea of what had happened? Didn't you
think anything of it except that I had suddenly gone mad? Or that I'd
grown to hate you?" "What was I to think?" she countered, trying to control the tremor that
had crept into her voice. "But did you think that?" "No," the girl confessed after a pause. "At first, when you started
with that drink, I thought you were looking for material for your work. That's what you said--an experiment. Didn't you?" "I guess so," he groaned. "But after that, after I'd swallowed that horrible stuff, but before
everything went hazy, I--thought differently." "But what, Pat? What did you think?" "Why, then I realized that it wasn't you--not the real you. I could
feel the--well, the presence of the person I knew; this presence
that was tormenting me was another person, a terrible, cold, inhuman
stranger." "Pat!" There was a note almost of relief in his voice. "Did you really
feel that?" "Yes. Does it help matters, my sensing that? I can't see how." His eyes, which had been fixed on hers, dropped suddenly. "No," he
muttered, all the relief gone out of his tones, "no, it doesn't help,
does it? Except that it's a meager consolation to me to know that you
felt it." | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
Pat struggled to suppress an impulse to reach out her hand, to stroke
his hair. She caught herself sharply; this was the very danger against
which she had warned herself--this was the very attitude she had
anticipated in Nicholas Devine, the lure which might bait a trap. Yet
he looked so forlorn, so wistful! It was an effort to forbear from
touching him; her fingers fairly ached to brush his cheek. "Only a fool walks twice into the same trap," she told herself. Aloud
she said, "You promised me an explanation. If you've any excuse, I'd
like to hear it." Her voice had resumed its coolness. "I haven't any excuse," he responded gloomily, "and the explanation is
perhaps too bizarre, too fantastic for belief. _I_ don't believe it
entirely; I suppose _you_ couldn't believe it at all." "You promised," she repeated. The carefully assumed composure of her
voice threatened to crack; this wistfulness of his was a powerful
weapon against her defense. "Oh, I'll give you the explanation," he said miserably. "I just wanted
to warn you you'd not believe me." He gave her a despondent glance. "Pat, as I love you I swear that what I tell you is the truth. Do you
think you can believe me?" "Yes," she murmured. The tremor had reappeared in her voice despite her
efforts. Nicholas Devine turned his eyes toward the lake and began to speak. 15
A Modern Mr. Hyde
"I don't remember when I first noticed it," began Nick in a low voice,
"but I'm two people. I'm me, the person who's talking to you now, and
I'm--another." Pat, looking very pale and serious in the dusky light, said nothing at
all. She simply gazed at him silently, without the slightest trace of
surprise in her wide dark eyes. "This is the real me," proceeded Nick miserably. "The other is an
outsider, that has somehow contrived to grow into me. He is different;
cold, cruel, utterly selfish, and not exactly--human. Do you
understand?" "Y--Yes," said the girl, fighting to control her voice. "Sort of." "This is a struggle that has continued for a long time," he pursued. "There were times in childhood when I remember punishments for offenses
I never committed, for nasty little meannesses _he_ perpetrated. My
mother, and after her death, my tutoress, thought I was lying when I
tried to explain; they thought I was trying to evade responsibility. After a while I learned not to explain; I learned to accept my
punishments doggedly, and to fight this other when he sought dominance." "And could you?" asked Pat, her voice frankly quavery. "Could you fight
him?" "I was the stronger; I could win--usually. He slipped into
consciousness as wilful, mean little impulses, nasty moods, unreasoning
hates and such unpleasant things. But I was always the stronger: I
learned to drive him into the background." "You said you _were_ the stronger," she mused. "What does that mean,
Nick?" "I've always been the stronger; I am now. But recently, Pat--I think
it's since I fell in love with you--the struggle has been on evener
terms. I've weakened or he's gained. I have to guard against him
constantly; in any moment of weakness he may slip in, as on our ride
last week, when we had that near accident. And again Saturday." He
turned appealing eyes on the girl. "Pat, do you believe me?" "I guess I'll have to," she said unhappily. "It--makes things rather
hopeless, doesn't it?" He nodded dejectedly. "Yes. I've always felt that sooner or later I'd
win, and drive him away permanently. I've felt on the verge of complete
victory more than once, but now--" He shook his head doubtfully. "He
had never dominated me so entirely until Saturday night--Pat, you
don't know what Hell is like until you're forced as I was to watch
the violation of the being you worship, to stand helpless while a
desecration is committed. I'd rather die than suffer it again!" "Oh!" said the girl faintly. She was thinking of the sorry picture she
must have presented as she reeled half-clothed through the alley. "Can
you see what--_he_ sees?" "Of course, and think his thoughts. But only when he's dominant. I
don't know what evil he's planning now, else I could forestall him, I
would have warned you if I could have known." "Where is he now?" "Here," said Nick somberly. "Here listening to us, knowing what I'm
thinking and feeling, laughing at my unhappiness." "Oh!" gasped Pat again. She watched her companion doubtfully. Then the
memory of Dr. Horker's diagnosis came to her, and set her wondering. Was this story the figment of an unsettled mind? Was this irrational
tale of a fiendish intruder merely evidence that the Doctor was right
in his opinion? She was in a maze of uncertainty. "Nick," she said, "did you ever try medical help? Did you ever go to a
doctor about it?" "Of course, Pat! Two years ago I went to a famous psychiatrist in
New York--you'd know the name if I mentioned it--and told him about
the--the case. And he studied me, and he treated me, and psychoanalyzed
me, and the net result was just nothing. And finally he dismissed
me with the opinion that 'the whole thing is just a fixed delusion,
fortunately harmless!' Harmless! Bah! But it wasn't I that did those
things, Pat; I had to stand by in horror and watch. It was enough to
_drive_ me crazy, but it didn't--quite." "But--Oh, Nick, what is it? What is this--this outsider? Can't we fight
it somehow?" "How can anyone except me fight it?" "Oh, I don't know!" she wailed miserably. "There must be a way. Doctors
claim to know pretty nearly everything; there must be _something_ to
do." "But there isn't," he retorted gloomily. "I don't know any more than
you what that thing is, but it's beyond your doctors. I've got to fight
it out alone." "Nick--" Her voice was suddenly tense. "Are you sure it isn't some
kind of madness? Something tangible like that could perhaps be treated." "It's no kind your doctors can treat, Pat. Did you ever hear of a
madman who stood aside and rationally watched the working of his own
insanity? And that's what I'm forced to do. And yet--this other isn't
insane either. Were its actions insane?" Pat shuddered. "I--don't know," she said in low tones. "I guess not." "No. Horrible, cruel, bestial, devilishly cunning, evil--but not
insane. I don't know what it is, Pat. I know that the fight has to be
made by me alone. There's nothing, nobody in the world, that can help." "Nick!" she wailed. "I'm sorry, Pat dear. You understand now why I was so reluctant to fall
in love with you. I was afraid to love you; now I know I was right." "Nick!" she cried, then paused hopelessly. After a moment she
continued, "Yesterday I was determined to forget you, and now--now I
don't care if this whole tale of yours is a mesh of fantastic lies, I
love you! I'd love you even if your real self were that--that other
creature, and even if I knew that this was just a trap. I'd love you
anyway." "Pat," he said seriously, "don't you believe me? Why should I offer to
give you up if this were--what you said? | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
Wouldn't I be pleading for
another chance, making promises, finding excuses?" "Oh, I believe you, Nick! It isn't that; I was just thinking how
strange it is that I could hate you so two nights past and love you so
tonight." "Oh God, Pat! Even you can't know how much I love you; and to win you
and then be forced to give you up--" He groaned. The girl reached out her hand and covered his; it was the first time
during the evening that she had touched him, and the feel of his flesh
sent a tingle through her. She was miserably distraught. "Honey," she murmured brokenly. "Nick, Honey." He looked at her. "Do you suppose there's a chance to beat the thing?" he asked. "I'd not ask you to wait, Pat, but if I only glimpsed a
chance--"
"I'll wait. I don't think I could do anything else but wait for you." "If I only knew what I had to fight!" he whispered. "If I only knew
that!" A sudden memory leaped into Pat's mind. "Nick," she said huskily, "I
think I know." "What do you mean, Pat?" "It's something Magda--the cook--said to me. It's foolish,
superstitious, but Nick, what else can it be?" "Tell me!" "Well, she was talking to me yesterday, and she said that when she
was a child in the old country, she had seen a man once--" she
hesitated--"a man who was possessed by a devil. Nick, I think you're
possessed by a devil!" He stared at her. "Pat," he said hoarsely, "that's--an impossibility!" "I know, but what else can it be?" "Out of the Dark Ages," he muttered. "An echo of the Black Mass and
witchcraft, but--"
"What did they do," asked the girl, "to people they thought were
possessed?" "Exorcism!" he whispered. "And how did they--exorcise?" "I don't know," he said in a low voice. "Pat, that's an impossible
idea, but--I don't know!" he ended. "We'll try," she murmured, still covering his hand with her own. "What
else can we do, Nick?" "What's done I'll do alone, Pat." "But I want to help!" "I'll not let you, Dear. I won't have you exposed to a repetition of
those indignities, or perhaps worse!" "I'm not afraid." "Then I am, Pat! I won't have it!" "But what'll you do?" "I'll go away. I'll battle the thing through once for all, and I'll
either come back free of it or--" He paused and the girl did not
question him further, but sat staring at him with troubled eyes. "I won't write you, Pat," he continued. "If you should receive a letter
from me, burn it--don't read it. It might be from--the other, a trap or
a lure of some sort. Promise me! You'll promise that, won't you?" She nodded; there was a glint of tears in her eyes. "And I don't want you to wait, Pat," he proceeded. "I don't want you to
feel that you have any obligations to me--God knows you've nothing to
thank me for! When--If I come back and you haven't changed, then we'll
try again." "Nick," she said in a small voice, "how do you know the--the other
won't come back here? How can you promise for--it?" "I'm still master!" he said grimly. "I won't be dominated long enough
at any time for that to happen. I'll fight it down." "Then--it's good-bye?" He nodded. "But not for always--I hope." "Nick," she murmured, "will you kiss me?" She felt a tear on her cheek. "I'll stand losing you a little better if I can have a--last kiss--to
remember." Her voice was faltering. His arms were about her. She yielded herself completely to his caress;
the park, the crowd passing a few yards away, the people on near-by
benches, were all forgotten, and once more she felt herself alone with
Nicholas Devine in a vast empty cosmos. An insistent voice penetrated her consciousness; she realized that it
had been calling her name for some seconds. "Miss Lane," she heard, and again, "Miss Lane." A hand tapped her
shoulder; with a sudden start, she tore her lips away, and looked up
into a face unrecognized for a moment. Then she placed it. It was the
visage of Mueller, Dr. Horker's companion on that disastrous Saturday
night. 16
Possessed
Pat stared at the intruder in a mingling of embarrassment, perplexity,
and indignation. She felt her cheeks reddening as the latter emotion
gained the dominance of her mood. "Well!" she snapped. "What do you want?" "I thought I'd walk home with you," Mueller said amiably. "Walk home with me! Please explain that!" She grasped the arm of
Nicholas Devine, who had risen angrily at the interruption. "Sit down,
Nick, I know the fellow." "So should he," said Mueller. "Sure; I'll explain. I'm on a job for Dr. Horker." "Spying on me for him, I suppose!" taunted the girl. "No. Not on you." "He means on me," said Nick soberly. "You can't blame him, Pat. And
perhaps you had better go home; we've finished here. There's nothing
more we can do or say." "Very well," she said, her voice suddenly softer. "In a moment, Nick." She turned to Mueller. "Would you mind telling me why you waited until
now to interfere? We've been here two hours, you know." "Sure I'll tell you. I got no orders to interfere, that's why." "Then why did you?" queried Pat tartly. "I didn't until I saw him there"--he nodded at Nick--"put his arms
around you. Then I figured, having no orders, it was time to use my own
judgment." "If any!" sniffed the girl. She turned again to Nick; her face
softened, became very tender. "Honey," she murmured huskily, "I guess
it's good-bye now. I'll be fighting with you; you know that." "I know that," he echoed, looking down into her eyes. "I'm almost
happy, Pat." "When'll you go?" she whispered in tones inaudible to Mueller. "I don't know," he answered, his voice unchanged. "I'll have to make
some sort of preparations--and I don't want you to know." She nodded. She gazed at him a moment longer with tear-bright eyes. "Good-bye, Nick," she whispered. She rose on tiptoe, and kissed him
very lightly on his lips, then turned and walked quickly away, with
Mueller following behind. She walked on, ignoring him until he halted beside her at the crossing
of the Drive. Then she gave him a cold glance. "Why is Dr. Carl having him watched?" she asked. Mueller shrugged. "The ins and outs of this case are too much for me,"
he said. "I do what I'm paid to do." "You're not watching him now." "Nope. Seemed like the Doctor would think it was more important to get
you home." "You're wasting your time," she said irritably as the lights changed
and they stepped into the street. "I was going home anyway." "Well, now you got company all the way." Mueller's voice was placid. The girl sniffed contemptuously, and strode silently along. The other's
presence irritated her; she wanted time and solitude to consider the
amazing story Nicholas Devine had given her. She wanted to analyze her
own feelings, and most of all she wanted just a place of privacy to
cry out her misery. For now the loss of Nicholas Devine had changed
from a fortunate escape to a tragedy, and liar, madman, or devil, she
wanted him terribly, with all the power of her tense little heart. So
she moved as swiftly as she could, ignoring the silent companionship of
Mueller. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
They reached her home; the light in the living room window was evidence
that the bridge game was still in progress. She mounted the steps,
Mueller watching her silently from the walk; she fumbled for her key. Suddenly she snapped her hand-bag shut; she couldn't face her mother
and the two spinster Brocks and elderly, inquisitive Carter Henderson. They'd suggest that she cut into the game, and they'd argue if
she refused, and she couldn't play bridge now! She glanced at the
impassive Mueller, turned and crossed the strip of lawn to Dr. Horker's
residence, where the light still glowed in the library, and rang the
bell. She saw the figure on the sidewalk move away as the shadow of the
Doctor appeared on the lighted square of the door. "Hello," boomed the Doctor amiably. "Come in." Pat stalked into the library and threw herself angrily into Dr.
Horker's particular chair. The other grinned, and chose another place. "Well," he said, "What touched off the fuse this time?" "Why are you spying on my friends?" snapped the girl. "By what right?" "So he's spotted Mueller, eh? That lad's diabolically clever, Pat--and
I mean diabolic." "That's no answer!" "So it isn't," agreed the Doctor. "Say it's because I'm acting _in loco
parentis_." "And _in loco_ is as far as you'll get, Dr. Carl, if you're going to
spy on me!" "On you?" he said mildly. "Who's spying on you?" "On us, then!" "Or on us?" queried the Doctor. "I set Mueller to watch the Devine lad. Have you by some mischance broken your promise to me?" Pat flushed. She had forgotten that broken promise; the recollection of
it suddenly took the wind from her sails, placed her on the defensive. "All right," she said defiantly. "I did; I admit it. Does that excuse
you?" "Perhaps it helps to explain my actions, Pat. Don't you understand that
I'm trying to protect you? Do you think I hired Mueller out of morbid
curiosity, or professional interest in the case? Times aren't so good
that I can throw money away on such whims." "I don't need any protection. I can take care of myself!" "So I noticed," said the Doctor dryly. "You gave convincing evidence of
it night before last." "Oh!" said the girl in exasperation. "You would say that!" "It's true, isn't it?" "Suppose it is! I don't have to learn the same lesson twice." "Well, apparently once wasn't enough," observed the other amiably. "You
walked into the same danger tonight." "I wasn't in any danger tonight!" Suddenly her mood changed as she
recalled the circumstances of her parting with Nicholas Devine. "Dr.
Carl," she said, her voice dropping, "I'm terribly unhappy." "Lord!" he exclaimed staring at her. "Pat, your moods are as changeable
as my golf game! You're as mercurial as your Devine lad! A moment ago
you were snapping at me, and now I'm suddenly acceptable again." He
perceived the misery in her face. "All right, child; I'm listening." "He's going away," she said mournfully. "Don't you think that's best for everybody concerned? I commend his
judgment." "But I don't want him to!" "You do, Pat. You can't continue seeing him, and his absence will make
it easier for you." "It'll never be easier for me, Dr. Carl." She felt her eyes fill. "I
guess I'm--just a fool about him." "You still feel that way, after the experience you went through?" "Yes. Yes, I do." "Then you _are_ a fool about him, Pat. He's not worth such devotion." "How do you know what he's worth? I'm the only one to judge that." "I have eyes," said the Doctor. "What happened tonight to change your
attitude so suddenly? You were amenable to reason yesterday." "I didn't know yesterday what I know now." "So he told a story, eh?" The Doctor watched her serious, troubled
features. "Would you mind telling me, Honey? I'm interested in the
defense mechanisms these psychopathic cases erect to explain their own
impulses to themselves." "No, I won't tell you!" snapped Pat indignantly. "Psychopathic cases! We're all just cases to you. I'm a case and he's another, and all you
want is our symptoms!" Doctor Horker smiled placatingly into her face. "Pat dear," he said
earnestly, "don't you see I'd give my eyes to help you? Don't take
my flippancies too seriously, Honey; look once in a while at the
intentions behind them." He continued his earnest gaze. The girl returned his look; her face softened. "I'm sorry," she said
contritely. "I never doubted it, Dr. Carl--it's only that I'm so--so
torn to pieces by all this that I get snappy and irritable." She
paused. "Of course I'll tell you." "I'd like to hear it." "Well," she began hesitantly, "he said he was two personalities--one
the character I knew, and one the character that we saw Saturday night. And the first one is--well, dominant, and fights the other one. He says
the other has been growing stronger; until lately he could suppress
it. And he says--Oh, it sounds ridiculous, the way I tell it, but it's
true! I'm sure it's true!" She leaned toward the Doctor. "Did you ever
hear of anything like it? Did you, Dr. Carl?" "No." He shook his head, still watching her seriously. "Not exactly
like that, Honey. Don't you think he might possibly have lied to you,
Pat? To excuse himself for the responsibility of Saturday night, for
instance?" "No, I don't," she said defiantly. "Then you have an idea yourself what the trouble is? I judge you have." "Yes," she said in low tones. "I have an idea." "What is it?" "I think he's possessed by a devil!" said the girl flatly. A quizzical expression came into the Doctor's face. "Well, of all the
queer ideas that harum-scarum mind of yours has _ever_ produced, that's
the queerest!" He broke into a chuckle. "Queer, is it?" flared Pat. "I don't think you and your mind-doctors
know as much as a Swahili medicine-man with a mask!" She leaped angrily to her feet, stamped viciously into the hall. "Devil and all," she repeated, "I love him!" "Pat!" called the Doctor anxiously. "Pat! Where are you going, child?" "Where do devils live?" Her voice floated tauntingly back from the
front door. "Hell, of course!" 17
Witch-Doctor
Pat had no intentions, however, of following the famous highway that
evening. She stamped angrily down the Doctor's steps, swished her way
through the break in the hedge with small regard to the safety of her
sheer hose, and mounted to her own porch. She found her key, opened the
door and entered. As she ascended the stairs, her fit of temper at the Doctor passed, and
she felt lonely, weary, and unutterably miserable. She sank to a seat
on the topmost step and gave herself over to bitter reflections. Nick was gone! The realization came poignantly at last; there would be
no more evening rides, no more conversations whose range was limited
only by the scope of the universe, no more breath-taking kisses, the
sweeter for his reluctance. She sat mournfully silent, and considered
the miserable situation in which she found herself. In love with a madman! Or worse--in love with a demon! | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
With a being
half of whose nature worshiped her while the other half was bent on her
destruction! Was any one, she asked herself--was any one, anywhere,
ever in a more hopeless predicament? What could she do? Nothing, she realized, save sit helplessly aside
while Nick battled the thing to a finish. Or possibly--the only
alternative--take him as he was, chance the vicissitudes of his
unstable nature, lay herself open to the horrors she had glimpsed so
recently, and pray for her fortunes to point the way of salvation. And
in the mood in which she now found herself, that seemed infinitely the
preferable solution. Yet rationally she knew it was impossible; she
shook her head despondently, and leaned against the wall in abject
misery. Then, thin and sharp sounded the shrill summons of the door bell, and
a moment later, the patter of the maid's footsteps in the hall below. She listened idly to distract herself from the chain of despondency
that was her thoughts, and was mildly startled to recognize the booming
drums of Dr. Horker's voice. She heard his greeting and the muffled
reply from the group, and then a phrase understandable because of his
sonorous tones. "Where's Pat?" The words drifted up the well of the stairs, followed
by a scarcely audible reply from her mother. Heavy footfalls on the
carpeted steps, and then his figure bulked on the landing below her. She cupped her chin on her hands, and stared down at him while he
ascended to her side, sprawling his great figure beside her. "Pat, Honey," he rumbled, "you're beginning to get me worried!" "Am I?" Her voice was weary, dull. "I've had myself like that for a
long time." "Poor kid! Are you really so miserable over this Nick problem of yours?" "I love him." "Yes." He looked at her with sympathy and calculation mingling in his
expression. "I believe you do. I'm sorry, Honey; I didn't realize until
now what he means to you." "You don't realize now," she murmured, still with the weary intonation. "Perhaps not, Pat, but I'm learning. If you're in this thing as deeply
at all that, I'm in too--to the finish. Want me?" She reached out her hand, plucking at his coatsleeve. Abruptly she
leaned toward him, burying her face against the rough tweed of his
suit; she sobbed a little, while he patted her gently with his great,
delicately fingered hand. "I'm sorry, Honey," he rumbled. "I'm sorry." The girl drew herself erect and leaned back against the wall, shaking
her head to drive the tears from her eyes. She gave the Doctor a wan
little smile. "Well?" she asked. "I'll return your compliment of the other night," said Horker briskly. "I'll ask a few questions--purely professional, of course." "Fire away, Dr. Carl." "Good. Now, when our friend has one of these--uh--attacks, is he
rational? Do his utterances seem to follow a logical thought sequence?" "I--think so." "In what way does he differ from his normal self?" "Oh, every way," she said with a tremor. "Nick's kind and gentle and
sensitive and--and naive, and this--other--is cruel, harsh, gross,
crafty, and horrible. You can't imagine a greater difference." "Um. Is the difference recognizable instantly? Could you ever be in
doubt as to which phase you were encountering?" "Oh, no! I can--well, sort of dominate Nick, but the other--Lord!" She
shuddered again. "I felt like a terrified child in the presence of some
powerful, evil god." "Humph! Perhaps the god's name was Priapus. Well, we'll discount your
feelings, Pat, because you weren't exactly in the best condition
for--let's say _sober_ judgment. Now about this story of his. What
happens to his own personality when this other phase is dominant? Did
he say?" "Yes. He said his own self was compelled to sort of stand by while
the--the intruder used his voice and body. He knew the thoughts of the
other, but only when it was dominant. The rest of the time he couldn't
tell its thoughts." "And how long has he suffered from these--intrusions?" "As long as he can remember. As a child he was blamed for the other's
mischief, and when he tried to explain, people thought he was lying to
escape punishment." "Well," observed the Doctor, "I can see how they might think that." "Don't you believe it?" "I don't exactly disbelieve it, Honey. The human mind plays queer
tricks sometimes, and this may be one of its little jokes. It's a
psychiatrist's business to investigate such things, and to painlessly
remove the point of the joke." "Oh, if you only can, Dr. Carl! If you only can!" "We'll see." He patted her hand comfortingly. "Now, you say the kind, gentle, and all that, phase is the normal one. Is that usually dominant?" "Yes. Nick can master the other, or could until recently. He says this
last--attack--is the worst he's ever had; the other has been gaining
strength." "Strange!" mused the Doctor. "Well," he said with a smile of
encouragement, "I'll have a look at him." "Do you think you can help?" Pat asked anxiously. "Have you any idea
what it is?" "It isn't a devil, at any rate," he smiled. "But have you any idea?" "Naturally I have, but I can't diagnose at second hand. I'll have to
talk to him." "But what do you think it is?" she persisted. "I think it's a fixation of an idea gained in childhood, Honey. I had
a patient once--" He smiled at the reminiscence--"who had a fixed
delusion of that sort. He was perfectly rational on every point
save one--he believed that a pig with a pink ribbon was following
him everywhere! Down town, into elevators and offices, home to
bed--everywhere he went this pink-ribboned prize porker pursued him!" "And did you cure him?" "Well, he recovered," said the Doctor non-committally. "We got rid of
the pig. And it might be something of that nature that's troubling your
boy friend. Your description doesn't sound like a praecox or a manic
depressive, as I thought originally." "Oh," said Pat abruptly. "I forgot. He went to a doctor in New York, a
very great doctor." "Muenster?" "He didn't say whom. But this doctor studied him a long time, and
finally came out with this fixed idea theory of yours. Only he couldn't
cure him." "Um." Horker grunted thoughtfully. "Do fixed ideas do things like that to people?" queried the girl. "Things like the pig and what happened to Nick?" "They might." "Then they're devils!" she announced with an air of finality. "They're
just your scientific jargon for exactly what Magda means when she says
a person's possessed by a devil. So I'm right anyway!" "That's good orthodox theology, Pat," chuckled the Doctor. "We'll try a
little exorcism on your devil, then." He rose to his feet. "Bring your
boy friend around, will you?" "Oh, Dr. Carl!" she cried. "He's leaving! I'll have to call him
tonight!" "Not tonight, Honey. Mueller would let me know if anything of that sort
were happening. Tomorrow's time enough." The girl stood erect, mounting to the top step to bring her head level
with the Doctor's. She threw her arms about him, burying her face in
his massive shoulder. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
"Dr. Carl," she murmured, "I'm a nasty, ill-tempered, vicious little
shrew, and I'm sorry, and I apologize. You know I'm crazy about you,
and," she whispered in his ear, "so's Mother!" 18
Vanished
"He doesn't answer! I'm too late," thought Pat disconsolately as she
replaced the telephone. The cheerfulness with which she had awakened
vanished like a patch of April sunshine. Now, with the failure of her
third attempt in as many hours to communicate with Nicholas Devine,
she was ready to confess defeat. She had waited too long. Despite Dr.
Horker's confidence in Mueller, she should have called last night--at
once. "He's gone!" she murmured distractedly. She realized now the
impossibility of finding him. His solitary habits, his dearth of
friends, his lonely existence, left her without the least idea of how
to commence a search. She knew, actually, so little about him--not
even the source of the apparently sufficient income on which he
subsisted. She felt herself completely at a loss, puzzled, lonesome,
and disheartened. The futile buzzing of the telephone signal symbolized
her frustration. Perhaps, she thought, Dr. Horker might suggest something to do;
perhaps, even, Mueller had reported Nick's whereabouts. She seized
the hope eagerly. A glance at her wrist-watch revealed the time as
ten-thirty; squarely in the midst of the Doctor's morning office hours,
but no matter. If he were busy she could wait. She rose, bounding
hastily down the stairs. She glimpsed her mother opening mail in the library, and paused
momentarily at the door. Mrs. Lane glanced up as she appeared. "Hello," said the mother. "You've been on the telephone all morning,
and what did Carl want of you last night?" "Argument," responded Pat briefly. "Carl's a gem! He's been of inestimable assistance in developing you
into a very charming and clever daughter, and Heaven knows what I'd
have raised without him!" "Cain, probably," suggested Pat. She passed into the hall and out the
door, blinking in the brilliant August sunshine. She crossed the strip
of turf, picked her way through the break in the hedge, and approached
the Doctor's door. It was open; it often was in summer time, especially
during his brief office hours. She entered and went into the chamber
used as waiting room. His office door was closed; the faint hum of his voice sounded. She sat
impatiently in a chair and forced herself to wait. Fortunately, the delay was nominal; it was but a few minutes when the
door opened and an opulent, middle-aged lady swept past her and away. Pat recognized her as Mrs. Lowry, some sort of cousin of the Brock pair. "Good morning!" boomed the Doctor. "Professional call, I take it, since
you're here during office hours." He settled his great form in a chair
beside her. "He's gone!" said Pat plaintively. "I can't reach him." "Humph!" grunted Horker helpfully. "I've tried all morning--he's always home in the morning." "Listen, you little scatter-brain!" rumbled the Doctor. "Why didn't you
tell me Mueller brought you home last night? I thought he was on the
job." "I didn't think of it," she wailed. "Nick said he'd have to make some
preparations, and I never dreamed he'd skip away like this." "He must have gone home directly after you left him, and skipped out
immediately," said the Doctor ruminatively. "Mueller never caught up
with him." "But what'll we do?" she cried desperately. "He can't have gone far with no more preparation than this," soothed
Horker. "He'll write you in a day or two." "He won't! He said he wouldn't. He doesn't want me to know where he
is!" She was on the verge of tears. "Now, now," said the Doctor still in his soothing tones. "It isn't as
bad as all that." "Take off your bed-side manner!" she snapped, blinking to keep back the
tears. "It's worse! What ever can we do? Dr. Carl," she changed to a
pleading tone, "can't you think of something?" "Of course, Pat! I can think of several things to do if you'll quiet
down for a moment or so." "I'm sorry, Dr. Carl--but what _can_ we do?" "First, perhaps Mueller can trace him. That's his business, you know." "But suppose he can't--what then?" "Well, I'd suggest you write him a letter." "But I don't know where to write!" she wailed. "I don't know his
address!" "Be still a moment, scatter-brain! Address it to his last residence;
you know that, don't you? Of course you do. Now, don't you suppose
he'll leave a forwarding address? He must receive some sort of mail
about his income, or estate, or whatever he lives on. Your letter'll
find him, Honey; don't you doubt it." "Oh, do you think so?" she asked, suddenly hopeful. "Do you really
think so?" "I really think so. You would too if you didn't fly into a panic every
time some little difficulty confronts you. Sometimes even my psychiatry
is puzzled to explain how you can be so clever and so stupid, so
self-reliant and so dependent, so capable and so helpless--all at one
and the same time. Your Nick can't be as much of a paradox as you are!" "I wonder if a letter _will_ reach him," she said eagerly, ignoring the
Doctor's remarks. "I'll try. I'll try immediately." "I sort of had a feeling you would," said Horker amiably. "I hope you
succeed; and not only for your sake, Pat, because God knows how this
thing will work out. But I'm anxious to examine this youngster of yours
on my own account; he must be a remarkable specimen to account for all
the perturbation he's managed to cause you. And this Jekyll-and-Hyde
angle sounds interesting, too." "Jekyll and Hyde!" echoed Pat. "Dr. Carl, is that possible?" "Not literally," chuckled the other, "though in a sense, Stevenson
anticipated Freud in his thesis that liberating the evil serves also to
release the good." "But--It was a drug that caused that change in the story, wasn't it?" "Well? Do you suspect your friend of being addicted to some mysterious
drug? Is that the latest hypothesis?" "_Is_ there such a drug? One that could change a person's character?" "_All_ alkaloids do that, Honey. Some of them stimulate, some depress,
some breed frenzies, and some give visions of delight--but all of
them influence one's mental and emotional organization, which you call
character. So for that matter, does a square meal, or a cup of coffee,
or even a rainy day." "But isn't there a drug that can separate good qualities from evil,
like the story?" "Emphatically not, Pat! That's not the trouble with this pesky boy
friend of yours." "Well," said the girl doubtfully, "I only wish I had as much faith in
your psychologies as you have. If you brain-doctors know it all, why do
you switch theories every year?" "We _don't_ know it all. On the other hand, there are a few things to
be said in our favor." "What are they?" "For one," replied the Doctor, "we do cure people occasionally. You'll
admit that." "Sure," said Pat. "So did the Salem witches--occasionally." She
gave him a suddenly worried look. "Oh, Dr. Carl, don't think I'm
not grateful! | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
You know how much I'm hoping from your help, but I'm
miserably anxious over all this." "Never mind, Honey. You're not the first one to point out the
shortcomings of the medical profession. That's a game played by plenty
of physicians too." He paused at the sound of footsteps on the porch,
followed by the buzz of the doorbell. "Run along and write your letter,
dear--here comes that Tuesday hypochondriac of mine, and he's rich
enough for my careful attention." Pat flashed him a quick smile of farewell and slipped quietly into the
hall. At the door she passed the Doctor's patient--a lean, elderly
gentleman of woe-begone visage--and returned to her own home. Her spirits, mercurial to a degree, had risen again. She was suddenly
positive that the Doctor's scheme would bring results, and she darted
into the house almost buoyantly. Her mother had abandoned the desk,
and she ensconced herself before it, finding paper and pen, and staring
thoughtfully at the blank sheet. Finally she wrote. "Dear Nick--
"Something has happened, favorable, I think, to us. I believe I
have found the help we need. "Will you come if you can, or if that's not possible, break that
self-given promise of yours, and communicate with me? "I love you." She signed it simply "Pat", placed it in an envelope, addressed it
hastily, and hurried out to post it. On her return she spied the
Doctor's hypochondriac in the act of leaving. He walked past her with
his lean, worry-smitten face like a study of Hogarth, and she heard him
mumbling to himself. The elation went out of her; she mounted the steps
very soberly, and went miserably inside. 19
Man or Monster? Pat suffered Wednesday through somehow, knowing that any such early
response to her letter was impossible. Still, that impossibility did
not deter her from starting at the sound of the telephone, and sorting
through the mail with an eagerness that drew a casual attention from
her mother. "Good Heavens, Patricia! You're like a child watching for an answer to
his note to Santa Claus!" "That's what I am, I guess," responded the girl ruefully. "Maybe I
expect too much from Santa Claus." Late in the afternoon she drifted over to Dr. Horker's residence, to
be informed that he was out. For distraction, she went in anyway, and
spent a while browsing among the books in the library. She blundered
into Kraft-Ebing, and read a few pages in growing indignation. "I'm ashamed to be human!" she muttered disgustedly to herself,
slamming shut the _Psychopathia Sexualis_. "I wouldn't be a doctor, or
have a child of mine become one, if I were positively certain he'd turn
into Lord Lister himself! Nick was right when he said doctors live on
people's troubles." She wondered how Dr. Horker could remain so human, so kindly and
understanding, when as he said himself his world was a parade of
misfits, incompetents, and all the nastiness of mortals. _He_ was nice;
she felt no embarrassment in confiding in him even when she might
hesitate to bare her feelings to her own mother. Or was it simply the
natural thing to do to tell one's troubles to a doctor? Not, of course, that the situation reflected any discredit on her
mother. Mrs. Lane was a very precious sort of parent, she mused,
young as Pat in spirit, appreciative and enthusiastically fond of her
daughter. That she trusted Pat, that she permitted her to do entirely
as she pleased, was exactly as the girl would have it; it argued no
lack of affection that each of them had their separate interests, and
if the girl occasionally found herself in unpleasantness such as this,
that too was her own fault. And yet, she reflected, it was a bitter thing to have no one to whom to
turn. If it weren't for Dr. Carl and his jovial willingness to commit
any sin up to malpractice to help her, she might have felt differently. But there always _was_ Dr. Carl, and that, she concluded, was that. She wandered back to her own side of the hedge, missing for the first
time in many weeks the companionship of the old crowd. There hadn't
been many idle afternoons heretofore during the summer; there'd always
been some of the collegiate vacationing in town, and Pat had never
needed other lure than her own piquant vivacity to assure herself
of ample attention. Now, of course, it was different; she had so
definitely tagged herself with the same Nicholas Devine that even the
most ardent of the group had taken the warning. "And I don't regret it either!" she told herself as she entered the
house. "Trouble, mystery, suffering and all--I don't regret it! I've
had my compensations too." She sighed and trudged upstairs to prepare for dinner. * * * * *
Morning found Pat in a fair frenzy of trepidation. She kept repeating
to herself that two days wasn't enough, that more time might be
required, that even had Nicholas Devine received her letter, he might
not have answered at once. Yet she was quivering as she darted into
the hall to examine the mail. It was there! She spied a fragment of the irregular handwriting and
seized the envelope from beneath a clutter of notes, bills, and
advertisements. She glanced at the post-mark. Chicago! He hadn't left
the city, trusting perhaps to the anonymity conferred by its colossal
swarm of humanity. Indeed, she thought as she stared at the missive,
he might have moved around the corner, and save for the chance of a
fortuitous meeting she'd never know it. She tore open the envelope and scanned the several scrawled lines. No heading, no salutation, not even a signature. Just, "Thursday
evening at our place in the park." No more; she studied the few words
intently, as if she could read into their bald phrasing the moods and
hidden emotions of the writer. A single phrase, but sufficient. The day was suddenly brighter, and
the hope which had glowed so dimly yesterday was abruptly almost more
than a hope--a certainty. All her doubts of Dr. Horker's abilities were
forgotten; already the solution of this uncanny mystery seemed assured,
and the restoration of romance imminent. She carried the letter to her
own room and tucked it carefully by the other in the drawer of the
night-table. Thursday evening--this evening! Many hours intervened between now and a
reasonable time for the meeting, but they loomed no longer drab, dull,
and hopeless. She lay on her bed and dreamed. She could meet Nick as early as possible; perhaps at eight-thirty, and
bring him directly to the Doctor's residence. No use wasting a moment,
she mused; the sooner some light could be thrown on the affliction,
the sooner they could lay the devil--exorcise it. Demon, fixed idea,
mental aberration, or whatever Dr. Carl chose to call it, it had to be
met and vanquished once and forever. And it _could_ be vanquished; in
her present mood she didn't doubt it. Then--after that--there was the
prospect of her own Nick regained, and the sweet vistas opened by that
reflection. She lunched in an abstracted manner. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
In the afternoon, when the phone
rang, she jumped in a startled manner, then relaxed with a shrug. But this time it _was_ for her. She darted into the hall to take the
call on the lower phone; she was hardly surprised but thoroughly
excited to recognize the voice of Nicholas Devine. "Pat?" "Nick! Oh, Nick, Honey! What is it?" "My note to you." Even across the wire she sensed the strain in his
tense tones. "You've read it?" "Of course, Nick! I'll be there." "No." His voice was trembling. "You won't come, Pat. Promise you won't!" "But why? Why not, Nick? Oh, it's terribly important that I see you!" "You're not to come, Pat!" "But--" An idea was struggling to her consciousness. "Nick, was it--?" "Yes. You know now." "But, Honey, what difference does it make? _You_ come. You must, Nick!" "I won't meet you, I tell you!" She could hear his voice rising
excitedly in pitch, she could feel the intensity of the struggle across
unknown miles of lifeless copper wire. "Nick," she said, "I'm going to be there, and you're going to meet me." There was silence at the other end. "Nick!" she cried anxiously. "Do you hear me? I'll be there. Will you?" His voice sounded again, now flat and toneless. "Yes," he said. "I'll be there." The receiver clicked at the far end of the wire; there was only a
futile buzzing in Pat's ears. She replaced the instrument and sat
staring dubiously at it. Had that been Nick, really her Nick, or--? Suppose she went to that
meeting and found--the other? Was she willing to face another evening
of indignities and terrors like those still fresh in her memory? Still, she argued, what harm could come to her on that bench, exposed
as it was to the gaze of thousands who wandered through the park on
summer evenings? Suppose it _were_ the other who met her; there was no
way to force her into a situation such as that of Saturday night. Nick
himself had chosen that very spot for their other meeting, and for that
very reason. "There's no risk in it," she told herself, "Nothing can possibly
happen. I'll simply go there and bring Nick back to Dr. Carl's, along a
lighted, busy street, the whole two blocks. What's there to be afraid
of?" Nothing at all, she answered herself. But suppose--She shuddered and
deliberately abandoned her chain of thought as she rose and rejoined
her mother. 20
The Assignation
Pat was by no means as buoyant as she had been in the morning. She
approached the appointed meeting place with a feeling of trepidation
that all her arguments could not subdue. She surveyed the crowded walks of the park with relief; she felt
confirmed in her assumption that nothing unpleasant could occur with
so many on-lookers. So she approached the bench with somewhat greater
self-assurance than when she had left the house. She saw the seat with its lone occupant, and hastened her steps. Nicholas Devine was sitting exactly as he had on that other occasion,
chin cupped on his hands, eyes turned moodily toward the vast lake
that coruscated now with the reflection of stars and many lights. As
before, she moved close to his side before he looked up, but here the
similarity of the two occasions vanished. Her fears were realized; she
was looking into the red-gleaming eyes and expressionless features of
his other self--the demon of Saturday evening! "Sit down!" he said as a sardonic half-smile twisted his lips. "Aren't
you pleased? Aren't you thrilled to the very core of your being?" Pat stood irresolute; she controlled an impulse to break into sudden,
abandoned flight. The imminence of the crowded walks again reassured
her, and she seated herself gingerly on the extreme edge of the bench,
staring at her companion with coolly inimical eyes. He returned her
gaze with features as immobile as carven stone; only his red eyes gave
evidence of the obscene, uncanny life behind the mask. "Well?" said Pat in as frigid a voice as she could muster. "Yes," said the other surveying her. "You are quite as I recalled you. Very pretty, almost beautiful, save for a certain irregularity in your
features. Not unpleasant, however." His eyes traveled over her body;
automatically she drew back, shrinking away from him. "You have a
seductive body," he continued. "A most seductive body; I regret that
circumstances prevented our full enjoyment of it. But that will come. Yes, that will come!" "Oh!" said Pat faintly. It took all her determination to remain seated
by the side of the horror. "You were extremely attractive as I attired you Saturday," the other
proceeded. His lips took on a curious sensual leer. "I could have
done better with more time; I would have stripped you somewhat more
completely. Everything, I think, except your legs; I am pleased by
the sight of long, straight, silk-clad legs, and should perhaps have
received some pleasure by running these hands along them--scratching
at proper intervals for the aesthetic effect of blood. But that too
will come." The girl sprang erect, gasping and speechless in outraged anger. She
turned abruptly; nothing remained of her determination now. She felt
only an urge to escape from the sneering tormentor who had lost in her
mind all connection with her own Nicholas Devine. She took a sudden
step. "Sit down!" She heard the tones of the entity behind her, flat,
unchanged. "Sit down, else I'll drag you here!" She paused in sheer surprise, turning a startled face on the other. "You wouldn't dare!" she said, amazed at the bald effrontery of the
threat. "You don't dare touch me here!" The other laughed. "Don't I? What have I to risk? _He_'ll suffer for
any deed of mine! You'll call for aid against me and only loose the
hounds on _him_." Pat stared blankly at the evil face. She had no answer; for once her
ready tongue found no retort. "Sit down!" reiterated the other, and she dropped dazedly to her
position on the bench. She turned dark questioning eyes on him. "Do you see," he sneered, "how weakening an influence is this love of
yours? To protect him you are obeying me; this is my authority over
you--this body I share with him!" She made no reply; she was making a desperate effort to lash her mind
into activity, to formulate some means of combating the being who
tortured her. "It has weakened him, too," the other proceeded. "This disturbed
love of his has taken away the mastery which birth gave him, and his
enfeeblement has given that mastery to me. He knows now the reason for
his weakness; I tell it to him too late to harm me." Pat struggled for composure. The very presence of the cold demon tore
at the roots of her self-control, and she suppressed a fierce desire to
break into hysterical laughter. Ridiculous, hopeless, incomprehensible
situation! She forced her quivering throat to husky speech. "What--what are you?" she stammered. "Synapse! I'm a question of synapses," jeered the other. "Simple! Very
simple! Ask your friend the Doctor!" "I think," said the girl, a measure of control returning to her voice,
"that you're a devil. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
You're some sort of a fiend that has managed to
attach itself to Nick, and you're not human. That's what I think!" "Think what you please," said the other. "We're wasting time here," he
said abruptly. "Come." "Where?" Pat was startled; she felt a recurrence of fright. "No matter where. Come." "I won't! Why do you want me?" "To complete the business of Saturday night," he said. "Your lips have
healed; they bleed no longer, but that is easy to remedy. Come." "I won't!" exclaimed the girl in sudden panic. "I won't!" She moved as
if to rise. "You forget," intoned the being beside her. "You forget the authority
vested in me by virtue of this love of yours. Let me convince you." He
stretched forth a thin hand. "Move and you condemn your sweetheart to
the punishment you threaten me." He seized her arm, pinching the flesh brutally, his nails breaking the
smooth skin. Pat felt her face turn ashy pale; she closed her eyes
and bit her nearly-healed lips at the excruciating pain, but she made
not the slightest sound nor the faintest movement. She simply sat and
suffered. "You see!" sneered the other, releasing her. "Thank my kindly nature
that I marked your arm instead of your face. Shall we go?" A scarcely audible whimper of pain came from the girl's lips. She sat
palled and unmoving, with her eyes still closed. "No," she murmured faintly at last. "No. I won't go with you." "Shall I drag you?" "Yes. Drag me if you dare." His hand closed on her wrist; she felt herself jerked violently to her
feet, so roughly that it wrenched her shoulder. A startled, frightened
little cry broke from her lips, and then she closed them firmly at the
sight of several by-passers turning curious eyes on them. "I'll come," she murmured. The glimmering of an idea had risen in her
chaotic mind. She followed him in grim, bitter silence across the clipped turf to the
limit of the park. She recognized Nick's modest automobile standing
in the line of cars along the street; her companion, or captor, moved
directly towards it, opened the door and clambered in without a single
backward glance. He turned about and watched her as she paused with
one diminutive foot on the running board, and rubbed her hand over her
aching arm. "Get in!" he ordered coldly. She made no move. "I want to know where you intend to take me." "It doesn't matter. To a place where we can complete that unfinished
experiment of ours. Aren't you happy at the prospect?" "Do you think," she said unsteadily, "that I'd consent to that even to
save Nick from disgrace and punishment? Do you think I'm fool enough
for that?" "We'll soon see." He extended his hand. "Scream--fight--struggle!" he
jeered. "Call them down on your sweetheart!" He had closed his hand on her wrist; she jerked it convulsively from
his grasp. "I'll bargain with you!" she gasped. She needed a moment's respite to
clarify a thought that had been growing in her mind. "Bargain? What have you to offer?" "As much as you!" "Ah, but I have a threat--the threat to your sweetheart! And I'm
offering too the lure of that evil whose face so charmed you recently. Have you forgotten how nearly I won you to the worship of that
principle? Have you forgotten the ecstasy of that pain?" His terrible, blood-shot eyes were approaching her face; and strangely,
the girl felt a curious recurrence of that illogical desire to yield
that had swept over her on that disastrous night of Saturday. There
_had_ been an ecstasy; there _had_ been a wild, ungodly, unhallowed
pleasure in his blows, in the searing pain of his kisses on her
lacerated lips. She realized vaguely that she was staring blankly,
dazedly, into the red eyes, and that somewhere within her, some insane
brain-cells were urging her to clamber to the seat beside him. She tore her eyes away. She rubbed her bruised shoulder, and the pain
of her own touch restored her vanishing logical faculties. She returned
her gaze to the face of the other, meeting his gaze now coolly. "Nick!" she said earnestly, as if calling him from a distance. "Nick!" There was, she fancied, the faintest gleam of concern apparent in the
features opposite her. She continued. "Nick!" she repeated. "You can hear me, Honey. Come to the house as
soon as you are able. Come tonight, or any time; I'll wait until you
do. You'll come, Honey; you must!" She backed away from the car; the other made no move to halt her. She
circled the vehicle and dashed recklessly across the street. From the
safety of the opposite walk she glanced back; the red-eyed visage was
regarding her steadily through the glass of the window. 21
A Question of Synapses
Pat almost ran the few blocks to her home. She hastened along in a near
panic, regardless of the glances of pedestrians she chanced to pass. With the disappearance of the immediate urge, the composure for which
she had struggled had deserted her, and she felt shaken, terrified,
and weak. Her arm ached miserably, and her wrenched shoulder pained at
each movement. It was not until she attained her own door-step that she
paused, panting and quivering, to consider the events of the evening. "I can't stand any more of this!" she muttered wretchedly to herself. "I'll just have to give up, I guess; I can't pit myself another time
against--that thing." She leaned wearily against the railing of the porch, rubbing her
injured arm. "Dr. Carl was right," she thought. "Nick was right; it's dangerous. There was a moment there at the end when he--or it--almost had me. I'm
frightened," she admitted. "Lord only knows what might have happened
had I been a little weaker. If the Lord _does_ know," she added. She found her latch-key and entered the house. Only a dim light burned
in the hall; her mother, of course, was at the Club, and the maid and
Magda were far away in their chambers on the third floor. She tossed
her wrap on a chair, switched on a brighter light, and examined the
painful spot on her arm, a red mark already beginning to turn a nasty
blue, with two tiny specks of drying blood. She shuddered, and trudged
wearily up the stairs to her room. The empty silence of the house oppressed her. She wanted human
companionship--safe, trustworthy, friendly company, anyone to distract
her thoughts from the eerie, disturbing direction they were taking. She was still in somewhat of a panic, and suppressed with difficulty a
desire to peep fearfully under the bed. "Coward!" she chided herself. "You knew what to expect." Suddenly the recollection of her parting words recurred to her. She
had told Nick--if Nick had indeed heard--to come to the house, to come
at once, tonight, if he could. A tremor of apprehension ran through
her. Suppose he came; suppose he came as her own Nick, and she admitted
him, and then--or suppose that other came, and managed by some trick to
enter, or suppose that unholy fascination of his prevailed on her--she
shivered, and brushed her hand distractedly across her eyes. "I can't stand it!" she moaned. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
"I'll have to give up, even if it means
never seeing Nick again. I'll have to!" She shook her head miserably as
if to deny the picture that had risen in her mind of herself and that
horror alone in the house. "I won't stay here!" she decided. She peeped out of the west windows at
the Doctor's residence, and felt a surge of relief at the sight of his
iron-gray hair framed in the library window below. He was reading; she
could see the book on his knees. There was her refuge; she ran hastily
down the stairs and out of the door. With an apprehensive glance along the street she crossed to his door
and rang the bell. She waited nervously for his coming, and, with
a sudden impulse, pulled her vanity-case from her bag and dabbed a
film of powder over the mark on her arm. Then his ponderous footsteps
sounded and the door opened. "Hello," he said genially. "These late evening visits of yours are
becoming quite customary--and see if I care!" "May I come in a while?" asked Pat meekly. "Have I ever turned you away?" He followed her into the library, pushed
a chair forward for her, and dropped quickly into his own with an air
of having snatched it from her just in time. "I didn't want your old arm-chair," she remarked, occupying the other. "And what's the trouble tonight?" he queried. "I--well, I was just nervous. I didn't want to stay in the house alone." "You?" His tone was skeptical. "You were nervous? That hardly sounds
reasonable, coming from an independent little spit-fire like you." "I was, though. I was scared." "And of what--or whom?" "Of haunts and devils." "Oh." He nodded. "I see you've had results from your letter-writing." "Well, sort of." "I'm used to your circumlocutions, Pat. Suppose you come directly to
the point for once. What happened?" "Why, I wrote Nick to get in touch with me, and I got a reply. He said
to meet him in the park at a place we knew. This evening." "And you did, of course." "Yes, but before that, this afternoon, he called up and told me not to,
but I insisted and we did." "Told you not to, eh? And was his warning justified?" "Yes. Oh, yes! When I came to the place, it was--the other." "So! Well, he could hardly manhandle you in a public park." Pat thought of her wrenched shoulder and bruised arm. She shuddered. "He's horrible!" she said. "Inhuman! He kept referring to Saturday
night, and he threatened that if I moved or made a disturbance he'd let
Nick suffer the consequences. So I kept still while he insulted me." "You nit-wit!" There was more than a trace of anger in the Doctor's
voice. "I want to see that pup of yours! We'll soon find out what this
thing is--a mania or simply lack of a good licking!" "What it is?" echoed Pat. "Oh--it told me! Dr. Carl, what's a synopsis?" "A synopsis! You know perfectly well." "I mean applied to physiology or psychology or something. It--he told
me he was a question of synopsis." "This devil of yours said that?" "Yes." "Hum!" The Doctor's voice was musing. He frowned perplexedly, then
looked up abruptly. "Was it--did he by any chance say synapses? Not
synopsis--synapses?" "That's it!" exclaimed the girl. "He said he was a question of
synapses. Does that explain him? Do you know what he is?" "Doesn't explain a damn thing!" snapped Horker. "A synapse is a
juncture, or the meeting of two nerves. It's why you can develop
automatic motions and habits, like playing piano, or dancing. When you
form a habit, the synapses of the nerves involved are sort of worn
thin, so the nerves themselves are, in a sense, short-circuited. You go
through motions without the need of your brain intervening, which is
all a habit amounts to. Understand?" "Not very well," confessed Pat. "Humph! It doesn't matter anyway. I can't see that it helps to analyze
your devil." "I don't care if it's never analyzed," said Pat with a return of
despondency. "Dr. Carl, I can't face that evil thing again. I can't do
it, not even if it means never seeing Nick!" "Sensible," said the Doctor approvingly. "I'd like to have a chance at
him, but not enough to keep you in this state of jitters. Although," he
added, "a lot of this mystery is the product of your own harum-scarum
mind. You can be sure of that, Honey." "You _would_ say so," responded the girl wearily. "You've never seen
that--change. If it's my imagination, then I'm the one that needs your
treatments, not Nick." "It isn't _all_ imagination, most likely," said Horker defensively. "I
know these introverted types with their hysterias, megalomanias, and
defense mechanisms! They've paraded through my office there for a good
many years, Pat; they've provided the lion's share of my practice. But
this young psychopathic of yours seems to have it bad--abnormally so,
and that's why I'm so interested, apart from helping you, of course." "I don't care," said Pat apathetically, repressing a desire to rub her
injured arm. "I'm through. I'm scared out of the affair. Another week
like this last one and I _would_ be one of your patients." "Best drop it, then," said Horker, eyeing her seriously. "Nothing's
worth upsetting yourself like this, Pat." "Nick's worth it," she murmured. "He's worth it--only I just haven't
the strength. I haven't the courage. I can't do it!" "Never mind, Honey," the Doctor muttered, regarding her with an
expression of concern. "You're probably well out of the mess. I know
damn well you haven't told me everything about this affair--notably,
how you acquired that ugly mark on your arm that's so carefully
powdered over. So, all in all, I guess you're well out of it." "I suppose I am." Her voice was still weary. Suddenly the glare of
headlights drew her attention to the window; a car was stopping before
her home. "There's Mother," she said. "I'll go on back now, Dr. Carl,
and thanks for entertaining a lonesome and depressed lady." She rose with a casual glance through the window, then halted in frozen
astonishment and a trace of terror. "Oh!" she gasped. The car was the modest coupe of Nicholas Devine. She peered through the window; the Doctor rose and stared over her
shoulder. "I told him to come," she whispered. "I told him to come when
he was able. He heard me, he or--the other." A figure alighted from the vehicle. Even in the dusk she could perceive
the exhaustion, the weariness in its movements. She pressed her face
to the pane, surveying the form with fascinated intentness. It turned,
supporting itself against the car and gazing steadily at her own door. With the movement the radiance of a street-light illuminated its
features. "It's Nick!" she cried with such eagerness that the Doctor was
startled. "It's _my_ Nick!" 22
Doctor and Devil
Pat rushed to the door, out upon the porch, and down to the street. Dr. Horker followed her to the entrance and stood watching her as she
darted toward the dejected figure beside the car. "Nick!" she cried. "I'm here, Honey. You heard me, didn't you?" She flung herself into his arms; he held her eagerly, pressing a hasty,
tender kiss on her lips. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
"You heard me!" she murmured. "Yes." His voice was husky, strained. "What is it, Pat? Tell me
quickly--God knows how much time we have!" "It's Dr. Carl. He'll help us, Nick." "Help us! No one can help us, dear. No one!" "He'll try. It can't do any harm, Honey. Come in with me. Now!" "It's useless, I tell you!" "But come," she pleaded. "Come anyway!" "Pat, I tell you this battle has to be fought out by me alone. I'm the
only one who can do anything at all and," he lowered his voice, "Pat,
I'm losing!" "Nick!" "That's why I came tonight. I was too cowardly to make our last
meeting--Monday evening in the park--a definite farewell. I wanted to,
but I weakened. So tonight, Pat, it's a final good-bye, and you thank
Heaven for it!" "Oh, Nick dear!" "It was touch and go whether I came at all tonight. It was a struggle,
Pat; _he_ is as strong as I am now. Or stronger." The girl gazed searchingly into his worn, weary face. He looked
miserably ill, she thought; he seemed as exhausted as one who had been
engaged in a physical battle. "Nick," she said insistently, "I don't care what you say, you're coming
in with me. Only for a little while." She tugged at his hand, dragging him reluctantly after her. He followed
her to the porch where the open door still framed the great figure of
the Doctor. "You know Dr. Carl," she said. "Come inside," growled Horker. Pat noticed the gruffness of his voice,
his lack of any cordiality, but she said nothing as she pulled her
reluctant companion through the door and into the library. The Doctor drew up another chair, and Pat, more accustomed to his
devices, observed that he placed it in such position that the lamp cast
a stream of radiance on Nick's face. She sank into her own chair and
waited silently for developments. "Well," said Horker, turning his shrewd old eyes on Nick's countenance,
"let's get down to cases. Pat's told me what she knows; we can take
that much for granted. Is there anything more you might want to tell?" "No, sir," responded the youth wearily. "I've told Pat all I know." "Humph! Maybe I can ask some leading questions, then. Will you answer
them?" "Of course, any that I can." "All right. Now," the Doctor's voice took on a cool professional edge,
"you've had these--uh--attacks as long as you can remember. Is that
right?" "Yes." "But they've been more severe of late?" "Much worse, sir!" "Since when?" "Since--about as long as I've known Pat. Four or five weeks." "M--m," droned the Doctor. "You've no idea of the cause for this
increase in the malignancy of the attacks?" "No sir," said Nick, after a barely perceptible hesitation. "You don't think the cause could be in any way connected with, let us
say, the emotional disturbances attending your acquaintance with Pat
here?" "No, sir," said the youth flatly. "All right," said Horker. "Let that angle go for the present. Are there
any after effects from these spells?" "Yes. There's always a splitting headache." He closed his eyes. "I have
one of them now." "Localized?" "Sir?" "Is the pain in any particular region? Forehead, temples, eyes, or so
forth?" "No. Just a nasty headache." "But no other after-effects?" "I can't think of any others. Except, perhaps, a feeling of exhaustion
after I've gone through what I've just finished." He closed his eyes as
if to shut out the recollection. "Well," mused the Doctor, "we'll forget the physical symptoms. What
happens to your individuality, your own consciousness, while you're
suffering an attack?" "Nothing happens to it," said Nick with a suppressed shudder. "I
watch and hear, but what _he_ does is beyond my control. It's
terrifying--horrible!" he burst out suddenly. "Doubtless," responded Horker smoothly. "What about the other? Does
that one stand by while you're in the saddle?" "I don't know," muttered Nick dully. "Of course he does!" he added
abruptly. "I can feel his presence at all times--even now. He's always
lurking, waiting to spring forth, as soon as I relax!" "Humph!" ejaculated the Doctor. "How do you manage to sleep?" "By waiting for exhaustion," said Nick wearily. "By waiting until I can
stay awake no longer." "And can you bring this other personality into dominance? Can you
change controls, so to speak, at will?" "Why--yes," the youth answered, hesitating as if puzzled. "Yes, I
suppose I could." "Let's see you, then." "But--" Horror was in his voice. "No, Dr. Carl!" Pat interjected in fright. "I won't let him!" "I thought you declared yourself out of this," said Horker with a
shrewd glance at the girl. "Then I'm back in it! I won't let him do what you want--anyway, not
that!" "Pat," said the Doctor with an air of patience, "you want me to treat
this affliction, don't you? Isn't that what both of you want?" The girl murmured a scarcely audible assent. "Very well, then," he proceeded. "Do you expect me to treat the thing
blindly--in the dark? Do you think I can guess at the cause without
observing the effect?" "No," said Pat faintly. "So! Now then," he turned to Nick, "Let's see this transformation." "Must I?" asked the youth reluctantly. "If you want my help." "All right," he agreed with another tremor. He sat passively staring
at the Doctor; a moment passed. Horker heard Pat's nervous breathing;
other than that, the room was in silence. Nicholas Devine closed his
eyes, brushed his hand across his forehead. A moment more and he opened
them to gaze perplexedly at the Doctor. "He won't!" he muttered in astonishment. "He won't do it!" "Humph!" snapped Horker, ignoring Pat's murmur of relief. "Finicky
devil, isn't he? Likes to pick company he can bully!" "I don't understand it!" Nick's face was blank. "He's been tormenting
me until just now!" He looked at the Doctor. "You don't think I'm lying
about it, do you, Dr. Horker?" "Not consciously," replied the other coolly. "If I thought you were
responsible for a few of the indignities perpetrated on Pat here, I'd
waste no time in questions, young man. I'd be relieving myself of
certain violent impulses instead." "I _couldn't_ harm Pat!" "You gave a passable imitation of it, then! However, that's beside the
point; as I say, I don't hold you responsible for aberrations which I
believe are beyond your control. The main thing is a diagnosis." "Do you know what it is?" cut in Pat eagerly. "Not yet--at least, not for certain. There's only one real method
available; these questions will get us nowhere. We'll have to
psychoanalyze you, young man." "I don't care what you do, if you can offer any hope!" he declared
vehemently. "Let's get it over!" "Not as easy as all that!" rumbled Horker. "It takes time; and besides,
it can't be successful with the subject in a hectic mood such as
yours." He glanced at his watch. "Moreover, it's after midnight." He turned to Nicholas Devine. "We'll make it Saturday evening,"
he said. "Meanwhile, young man, you're not to see Pat. Not at
all--understand? You can see her here when you come." | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
"That's infinitely more than I'd planned for myself," said the youth in
a low voice. "I'd abandoned the hope of seeing her." He rose and moved toward the door, and the others followed. At the
entrance he paused; he leaned down to plant a brief, tender kiss on
the girl's lips, and moved wordlessly out of the door. Pat watched
him enter his car, and followed the vehicle with her eyes until it
disappeared. Then she turned to Horker. "Do you really know anything about it?" she queried. "Have you any
theory at all?" "He's not lying," said the Doctor thoughtfully. "I watched him closely;
he believes he's telling the truth." "He is. I know what I saw!" "He hasn't the signs of praecox or depressive," mused the Doctor. "It's
puzzling; it's one of those functional aberrations, or a fixed delusion
of some kind. We'll find out just what it is." "It's the devil," declared Pat positively. "I don't care what sort of
scientific tag you give it--that's what it is. You doctors can hide a
lot of ignorance under a long name." Horker paid no attention to her remarks. "We'll see what the
psychoanalysis brings out," he said. "I shouldn't be surprised if the
whole thing were the result of a defense mechanism erected by a timid
child in an effort to evade responsibility. That's what it sounds like." "It's a devil!" reiterated Pat. "Well," said the Doctor, "if it is, it has one thing in common with
every spook or devil I ever heard of." "What's that?" "It refuses to appear under any conditions where one has a chance to
examine it. It's like one of these temperamental mediums trying to
perform under a spot-light." 23
Werewolf
Pat awoke in rather better spirits. Somehow, the actual entrance of Dr.
Horker into the case gave her a feeling of security, and her natural
optimistic nature rode the pendulum back from despair to hope. Even the
painful black-and-blue mark on her arm, as she examined it ruefully,
failed to shake her buoyant mood. Her mood held most of the day; it was only at evening that a recurrence
of doubt assailed her. She sat in the dim living room waiting the
arrival of her mother's guests, and wondered whether, after all, the
predicament was as easily solvable as she had assumed. She watched
the play of lights and shadows across the ceiling, patterns cast
through the windows by moving headlights in the street, and wondered
anew whether her faith in Dr. Carl's abilities was justified. Science! She had the faith of her generation in its omnipotence, but here in
the dusk, the outworn superstitions of childhood became appalling
realities, and some of Magda's stories, forgotten now for years, rose
out of their graves and went squeaking and maundering like sheeted
ghosts in a ghastly parade across the universe of her mind. The
meaningless taunts she habitually flung at Dr. Carl's science became
suddenly pregnant with truth; his patient, hard-learned science seemed
in fact no more than the frenzies of a witch-doctor dancing in the
heart of a Rhodesian swamp. What was it worth--this array of medical facts--if it failed to
cure? Was medicine falling into the state of Chinese science--a vast
collection of good rules for which the reasons were either unknown or
long forgotten? She sighed; it was with a feeling of profound relief
that she heard the voices of the Brocks outside; she played miserable
bridge the whole evening, but it was less of an affliction than the
solitude of her own thoughts. Saturday morning, cloudy and threatening though it was, found the
pendulum once more at the other end of the arc. She found herself, if
not buoyantly cheerful, at least no longer prey to the inchoate doubts
and fears of the preceding evening. She couldn't even recall their
nature; they had been apart from the cool, day-time logic that preached
a common-sense reliance on accepted practices. They had been, she
concluded, no more than childish nightmares induced by darkness and the
play of shadows. She dressed and ate a late breakfast; her mother was already en route
to the Club for her bridge-luncheon. Thereafter, she wandered into the
kitchen for the company of Magda, whom she found with massive arms
immersed in dish water. Pat perched on her particular stool beside the
kitchen table and watched her at her work. "Magda," she said finally. "I'm listening, Miss Pat." "Do you remember a story you told me a long time ago? Oh, years
and years ago, about a man in your town who could change into
something--some fierce animal. A wolf, or something like that." "Oh, him!" said Magda, knitting her heavy brows. "You mean the
werewolf." "That's it! The werewolf. I remember it now--how frightened I was after
I went to bed. I wasn't more than eight years old, was I?" "I couldn't remember. It was years ago, though, for sure." "What was the story?" queried Pat. "Do you remember that?" "Why, it was the time the sheep were being missed," said the woman,
punctuating her words with the clatter of dishes on the drainboard. "Then there was a child gone, and another, and then tales of this great
wolf about the country. I didn't see him; us little ones stayed under
roof by darkness after that." "That wasn't all of it," said Pat. "You told me more than that." "Well," continued Magda, "there was my uncle, who was best hand with
a rifle in the village. He and others went after the creature, and my
uncle, he came back telling how he'd seen it plain against the sky, and
how he'd fired at it. He couldn't miss, he was that close, but the wolf
gave him a look and ran away." "And then what?" "Then the Priest came, and he said it wasn't a natural wolf. He melted
up a silver coin and cast a bullet, and he gave it to my uncle, he
being the best shot in the village. And the next night he went out once
more." "Did he get it?" asked Pat. "I don't remember." "He did. He came upon it by the pasture, and he aimed his gun. The
creature looked straight at him with its evil red eyes, and he shot it. When he came to it, there wasn't a wolf at all, but this man--his name
I forget--with a hole in his head. And then the Priest, he said he was
a werewolf, and only a silver bullet could kill him. But my uncle, _he_
said those evil red eyes kept staring at him for many nights." "Evil red eyes!" said Pat suddenly. "Magda," she asked in a faint
voice, "could he change any time he wanted to?" "Only by night, the Priest said. By sunrise he had to be back." "Only by night!" mused the girl. Another idea was forming in her active
little mind, another conception, disturbing, impossible to phrase. "Is
that worse than being possessed by a devil, Magda?" "Sure it's worse! The Priest, he could cast out the devil, but I never
heard no cure for being a werewolf." Pat said nothing further, but slid from her high perch to the floor and
went soberly out of the kitchen. The fears of last night had come to
life again, and now the over-cast skies outside seemed a fitting symbol
to her mood. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
She stared thoughtfully out of the living room windows,
and the sudden splash of raindrops against the pane lent a final touch
to the whole desolate ensemble. "I'm just a superstitious little idiot!" she told herself. "I laugh
at Mother because she always likes to play North and South, and here
I'm letting myself worry over superstitions that were discarded before
there was any such thing as a game called contract bridge." But her arguments failed to carry conviction. The memory of the
terrible eyes of that _other_ had clicked too aptly to Magda's phrase. She couldn't subdue the picture that haunted her, and she couldn't cast
off the apprehensiveness of her mood. She recalled gloomily that Dr.
Horker was at the Club--wouldn't be home before evening, else she'd
have gladly availed herself of his solid, matter-of-fact company. She thought of Nick's appointment with the Doctor for that evening. Suppose his psychoanalysis brought to light some such horror as these
fears of hers--that would forever destroy any possibility of happiness
for her and Nick. Even though the Doctor refused to recognize it,
called it by some polysyllabic scientific name, the thing would be
there to sever them. She wandered restlessly into the hall. The morning mail, unexamined,
lay in its brazen receptacle, she moved over, fingering it idly. Abruptly she paused in astonishment--a letter in familiar script
had flashed at her. She pulled it out; it was! It was a letter from
Nicholas Devine! She tore it open nervously, wondering whether he had reverted to his
original refusal of Dr. Horker's aid, whether he was unable to come,
whether _that_ had happened. But only a single unfolded sheet slipped
from the envelope, inscribed with a few brief lines of poetry. "The grief that is too faint for tears,
And scarcely breathes of pain,
May linger on a hundred years
Ere it creep forth again. But I, who love you now too well
To suffer your disdain,
Must try tonight that love to quell--
And try in vain!" 24
The Dark Other
It was early in the evening, not yet eight o'clock, when Pat saw the
car of Nicholas Devine draw up before the house. She had already been
watching half an hour, sitting cross-legged in the deep window seat,
like her jade Buddha. That equivocal poem of his had disturbed her,
lent an added strength to the moods and doubts already implanted by
Magda's mystical tale, and it was with a feeling of trepidation that
she watched him emerge wearily from his vehicle and stare in indecision
first at her window and then at the Horker residence. The waning
daylight was still sufficient to delineate his worn features; she
could see them, pale, harried, but indubitably the mild features of her
own Nick. While he hesitated, she darted to the door and out upon the porch. He
gave her a wan smile of greeting, advanced to the foot of the steps,
and halted there. "The Doctor's not home yet," she called to him. He stood motionless
below her. "Come up on the porch," she invited, as he made no move. She uttered
the words with a curious feeling of apprehension; for even as she ached
for his presence, the uncertain state of affairs was frightening. She
thought fearfully that what had happened before might happen again. Still, there on the open porch, in practically full daylight, and for
so brief a time--Dr. Carl would be coming very shortly, she reasoned. "I can't," said Nick, staring wistfully at her. "You know I can't." "Why not?" "I promised. You remember--I promised Dr. Horker I'd not see you except
in his presence." "So you did," said Pat doubtfully. The promise offered escape from
a distressing situation, she thought, and yet--somehow, seeing Nick
standing pathetically there, she couldn't imagine anything harmful
emanating from him. There had been many and many evenings in his
company that had passed delightfully, enjoyably, safely. She felt a
wave of pity for him; after all, the affliction was his, most of the
suffering was his. "We needn't take it so literally," she said almost reluctantly. "He'll
be home very soon now." "I know," said Nick soberly, "but it was a promise, and besides, I'm
afraid." "Never mind, Honey," she said, after a momentary hesitation. "Come up
and sit here on the steps, then--here beside me. We can talk just as
well as there on the settee." He climbed the steps and seated himself, watching Pat with longing
eyes. He made no move to touch her, nor did she suggest a kiss. "I read your poem, Honey," she said finally. "It worried me." "I'm sorry, Pat. I couldn't sleep. I kept wandering around the house,
and at last I wrote it and took it out and mailed it. It was a vent, a
relief from the things I'd been thinking." "What things, Honey?" "A way, mostly," he answered gloomily, "of removing myself from your
life. A permanent way." "Nick!" "I didn't, as you see, Pat. I was too cowardly, I suppose. Or perhaps
it was because of this forlorn hope of ours. There's always hope, Pat;
even the condemned man with his foot on the step to the gallows feels
it." "Nick dear!" she cried, her voice quavering in pity. "Nick, you mustn't
think of those things! It might weaken you--make it easier for _him_!" "It can't. If it frightens _him_, I'm glad." "Honey," she said soothingly, "we'll give Dr. Carl a chance. Promise me
you'll let him try, won't you?" "Of course I will. Is there anything I'd refuse to promise you, Pat? Even," he added bitterly, "when reason tells me it's a futile promise." "Don't say it!" she urged fiercely. "We've got to help him. We've got
to believe--There he comes!" she finished with sudden relief. The Doctor's car turned up the driveway beyond his residence. Pat saw
his face regarding them as he disappeared behind the building. "Come on, Honey," she said. "Let's get at the business." They moved slowly over to the Doctor's door, waiting there until his
ponderous footsteps sounded. A light flashed in the hall, and his broad
shadow filled the door for a moment before it opened. "Come in," he rumbled jovially. "Fine evening we're spoiling, isn't it?" "It could be," said Pat as they followed him into the library, "only
it'll probably rain some more." "Hah!" snorted the Doctor, frowning at the mention of rain. "The course
was soft. Couldn't get any distance, and it added six strokes to my
score. At least six!" Pat chuckled commiseratingly. "You ought to lay out a course in
Greenland," she suggested. "They say anyone can drive a ball a quarter
of a mile on smooth ice." "Humph!" The Doctor waved toward a great, low chair. "Suppose you sit
over there, young man, and we'll get about our business. And don't look
so woe-begone about it." Nick settled himself nervously in the designated chair; the Doctor
seated himself at a little distance to the side, and Pat sat tensely in
her usual place beside the hearth. She waited in strained impatience
for the black magic of psychoanalysis to commence. "Now," said Horker, "I want you to keep quiet, Pat--if possible. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
And
you, young man, are to relax, compose yourself, get yourself into as
passive a state as possible. Do you understand?" "Yes, sir," The youth leaned back in the great chair, closing his eyes. "So! Now, think back to your childhood, your earliest memories. Let
your thoughts wander at random, and speak whatever comes to your mind." Nick sat a moment in silence. "That's hard to do, sir," he said finally. "Yes. It will take practice, weeks of it, perhaps. You'll have to
acquire the knack of it, but to do that, we'll have to start." "Yes, sir." He sat with closed eyes. "My mother," he murmured, "was
kind. I remember her a little, just a little. She was very gentle, not
apt to blame me. She could understand. Made excuses to my father. He
was hard, not cruel--strict. Couldn't understand. Blamed me when I
wasn't to blame. Other did it. I wasn't mischievous, but got the blame. Couldn't explain, he wouldn't believe me." He paused uncertainly. "Go on," said Horker quietly, while Pat strained her ears to listen. "Mrs. Stevens," he continued. "Governess after Mother died. Strict like
Father, got punished when I wasn't to blame. Just as bad after Father
died. Always blamed. Couldn't explain, nobody believed me. Other threw
cat in window, I had to go to bed. Put salt in bird seed, broke leg of
chair to make it fall. Punished--I couldn't explain." His voice droned
into silence; he opened his eyes. "That all," he said nervously. "Good enough for the first time," said the Doctor briskly. "Wait a few
weeks; we'll have your life's history out of you. It takes practice." "Is that all?" queried Pat in astonishment. "All for the first time. Later we'll let him talk half an hour at a
stretch, but it takes practice, as I've mentioned. You run along home
now," he said to Nick. "But it's early!" objected Pat. "Early or not," said the Doctor, "I'm tired, and you two aren't to see
each other except here. You remember that." Nick rose from his seat in the depths of the great chair. "Thank you,
sir," he said. "I don't know why, but I feel easier in your presence. The--the struggle disappears while I'm here." "Well," said Horker with a smile, "I like patients with confidence in
me. Good night." At the door Nick paused, turning wistful eyes on Pat. "Good night," he
said, leaning to give her a light kiss. A rush of some emotion twisted
his features; he stared strangely at the girl. "I'd better go," he said
abruptly, and vanished through the door. "Well?" said Pat questioningly, turning to the Doctor. "Did you learn
anything from that?" "Not much," the other admitted, yawning. "However, the results bear out
my theory." "How?" "Did you notice how he harped on the undeserved punishment theme? He
was punished for another's mischief?" "Yes. What of that?" "Well, picture him as a timid, sensitive child, rather afraid of being
punished. Afraid, say, of being locked up in a dark closet. Now, when
he inadvertently commits a mischief, as all children do, he tries
desperately to divert the blame from himself. But there's no one else
to blame! So what does he do?" "What?" "He invents this _other_, the mischievous one, and blames him. And
now the other has grown to the proportions of a delusion, haunting
him, driving him to commit acts apart from his normal inclinations. Understand? Because I'm off to bed whether you do or not." "I understand all right," murmured Pat uncertainly as she moved to the
door. "But somehow, it doesn't sound reasonable." "It will," said the Doctor. "Good night." Pat wandered slowly down the steps and through the break in the hedge,
musing over Doctor Horker's expression of opinion. Then, according
to him, the devil was nothing more than an invention of Nick's mind,
the trick of a cowardly child to evade just punishment. She shook her
head; it didn't sound like Nick at all. For all his gentleness and
sensitivity, he wasn't the one to hide behind a fabrication. He wasn't
a coward; she was certain of that. And she was as sure as she could
ever be that he hated, feared, loathed this personality that afflicted
him; he _couldn't_ have created it. She sighed, mounted the steps, and fumbled for her key. The sound
of a movement behind her brought a faint gasp of astonishment. She
turned to see a figure materializing from the shadows of the porch. The light from the hall fell across its features, and she drew back as
she recognized Nicholas Devine--not the being she had just kissed good
night, but in the guise of her tormentor, the red-eyed demon! 25
The Demon Lover
Pat drew back, leaning against the door, and her key tinkled on the
concrete of the porch. She was startled, shocked, but not as completely
terrified as she might have expected. After all, she thought rapidly,
they were standing in full view of a public street, and Dr. Carl's
residence was but a few feet distant. She could summon his help by
screaming. "Well!" she exclaimed, eyeing the figure inimically. "Your appearances
and disappearances are beginning to remind me of the Cheshire Cat." "Except for the grin," said the other in his cold tones. "What do you want?" snapped Pat. "You know what I want." "You'll not get it," said the girl angrily. "You--you're doomed to
extinction, anyway! Go away!" "Suppose," said the other with a strange, cold, twisted smile, "it were
_he_ that's doomed to extinction--what then?" "It isn't!" cried Pat. "It isn't!" she repeated, while a quiver of
uncertainty shook her. "He's the stronger," she said defiantly. "Then where is he now?" "Dr. Carl will help us!" "Doctor!" sneered the other. "He and his clever theory! Am I an
illusion?" he queried sardonically, thrusting his red-glinting eyes
toward her. "Am I the product of his puerile, vacillating nature? Bah! I gave you the clue, and your Doctor hasn't the intelligence to follow
it!" "Go away!" murmured Pat faintly. The approach of his face had unnerved
her, and she felt terror beginning to stir within her. "Go away!" she
said again. "Why do you have to torment me? Any one would serve your
purpose--any woman!" "You have an aesthetic appeal, as I've told you before," replied the
other in that toneless voice of his. "There is a pleasure in the
defacement of black hair and pale skin, and your body is seductive,
most seductive. Another might afford me less enjoyment, and besides,
you hate me. Don't you hate me?" He peered evilly at her. "Oh, God--yes!" The girl was shuddering. "Say it, then! Say you hate me!" "I hate you!" the girl cried vehemently. "Will you go away now?" "With you!" "I'll scream if you come any closer. You don't dare touch me; I'll call
Dr. Horker." "You'll only damage _him_--your lover." "Then I'll do it! He'll understand." "Yes," said the other reflectively. "He's fool enough to forgive you. He'll forgive you anything--the weakling!" "Go away! Get away from here!" The other stared at her out of blood-shot eyes. "Very well," he said in
his flat tones. "This time the victory is yours." He backed slowly toward the steps. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
Pat watched him as he moved, feeling
a surge of profound relief. As his shadow shifted, her key gleamed
silver at her feet, and she stooped to retrieve it. There was a rush of motion as her eyes left the form of her antagonist. A hand was clamped violently over her mouth, an arm passed with
steel-like rigidity about her body. Nicholas Devine was dragging her
toward the steps; she was half-way down before she recovered her wits
enough to struggle. She writhed and twisted in his grasp. She drove her elbow into his
body with all her power, and kicked with the strength of desperation
at his legs. She bit into the palm across her mouth--and suddenly,
with a subdued grunt of pain, he released her so abruptly that her own
struggles sent her spinning blindly into the bushes of the hedge. She turned gasping, unable for the moment to summon sufficient breath
to scream. The other stood facing her with his eyes gleaming terribly
into her own; then they ranged slowly from her diminutive feet to the
rumpled ebony of her hair that she was brushing back with her hands
from her pallid, frightened face. "Obstinate," he observed, rubbing his injured palm. "Obstinate and unbroken--but worth the trouble. Well worth it!" He
reached out a swift hand, seizing her wrist as she backed against the
bushes. Pat twisted around, gazing frantically at Doctor Horker's house, where
a light had only now flashed on in the upper windows. Her breath flowed
back into her lungs with a strengthening rush. "Dr. Carl!" she screamed. "Dr. Carl! Help me!" The other spun her violently about. She had a momentary glimpse of
a horribly evil countenance, then he drew back his arm and shot a
clenched fist to her chin. The world reeled into a blaze of spinning lights that faded quickly to
darkness. She felt her knees buckling beneath her, and realized that
she was crumpling forward toward the figure before her. Then for a
moment she was aware of nothing. She didn't quite lose consciousness, or at least for no more than a
moment. She was suddenly aware that she was gazing down at a moving
pavement, at her own arms dangling helplessly toward it. She perceived
that she was lying limply across Nicholas Devine's shoulder with his
arms clenched about her knees. And then, still unable to make the
slightest resistance, she was bundled roughly into the seat of his
coupe; he was beside her, and the car was purring into motion. She summoned what remained of her strength. She drew herself erect,
fumbling at the handle of the door with a frantic idea of casting
herself out of the car to the street. The creature beside her jerked
her violently back; as she reeled into the seat, he struck her again
with the side of his fist. It was a random blow, delivered with
scarcely a glance at her; it caught her on the forehead, snapping her
head with an audible thump against the wall of the vehicle. She swayed
for a moment with closing eyes, then collapsed limply against him, this
time in complete unconsciousness. That lapse too must have been brief. She opened dazed eyes on a vista
of moving street lights; they were still in the car, passing now along
some unrecognized thoroughfare lined with dark old homes. She lay
for some moments uncomprehending; she was completely unaware of her
situation. It dawned on her slowly. She moaned, struggled away from the shoulder
against which she had been leaning, and huddled miserably in the far
corner of the seat. Nicholas Devine gave her a single glance with his
unpleasant eyes, and turned them again on the street. The girl was helpless, unable to put forth the strength even for
another attempt to open the door. She was still only half aware of her
position, and realized only that something appalling was occurring to
her. She lay in passive misery against the cushions of the seat as the
other turned suddenly up a dark driveway and into the open door of a
small garage. He snapped off the engine, extinguished the headlights,
and left them in a horrible, smothering, silent darkness. She heard him open the door on his side; after an apparently
interminable interval, she heard the creak of the hinges on her own
side. She huddled terrified, voiceless, and immobile. He reached in, fumbling against her in the darkness. He found her arm,
and dragged her from the car. Again, as on that other occasion, she
found herself reeling helplessly behind him through the dark as he
tugged at her wrist. He paused at a door in the building adjacent to
the garage, searching in his pocket with his free hand. "I won't go in there!" she muttered dazedly. The other made no reply,
but inserted a key in the lock, turned it, and swung open the door. He stepped through it, dragging her after him. With a sudden access of
desperate strength, she caught the frame of the door, jerked violently
on her prisoned wrist, and was unexpectedly free. She reeled away,
turned toward the street, and took a few faltering steps down the
driveway. Almost instantly her tormentor was upon her, and his hand closed again
on her arm. Pat had no further strength; she sank to the pavement and
crouched there, disregarding the insistent tugging on her arm. "Come on," he growled. "You only delay the inevitable. Must I drag you?" She made no reply. He tugged violently at her wrist, dragging her a few
inches along the pavement. Then he stooped over her, raised her in his
arms, and bore her toward the dark opening of the door. He crowded her
roughly through it, disregarding the painful bumping of her shoulders
and knees. She heard the slam of the door as he kicked it closed,
and she realized that they were mounting a flight of stairs, moving
somewhere into the oppressive threatening darkness. Then they were moving along a level floor, and her arm was bruised
against another door. There was a moment of stillness, and then she was
released, dropped indifferently to the surface of a bed or couch. A
moment later a light flashed on. The girl was conscious at first only of the gaze of the red eyes. They
held her own in a fascinating, unbreakable, trance-like spell. Then, in
a wave of dizziness, she closed her own eyes. "Where are we?" she murmured. "In Hell?" "You should call it Heaven," came the sardonic voice. "It's the home of
your sweetheart. His home--and mine!" 26
The Depths
"Heaven and Hell always were the same place," said Nicholas Devine, his
red eyes glaring down at the girl. "We'll demonstrate the fact." Pat shifted wearily, and sat erect, passing her hand dazedly across her
face. She brushed the tangled strands of black hair from before her
eyes, and stared dully at the room in which she found herself. It had some of the aspects of a study, and some of a laboratory, or
perhaps a doctor's office. There was a case of dusty books on the wall
opposite, and another crystal-fronted cabinet containing glassware,
bottles, little round boxes suggestive of drugs or pharmaceuticals. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
There was a paper-littered table too; she gave a convulsive shudder at
the sight of a bald, varnished death's head, its lower jar articulated,
that reposed on a pile of papers and grinned at her. "Where--" she began faintly. "This was the room of your sweetheart's father," said the other. "His
and my mutual father. He was an experimenter, a researcher, and so, in
another sense, am I!" He leered evilly at her. "He used this chamber
to further his experiments, and I for mine--the carrying on of a noble
family tradition!" The girl scarcely heard his words; the expressionless tone carried no
meaning to the chaos which was her mind. She felt only an inchoate
horror and a vague but all-encompassing fear, and her head was aching
from the blows he had dealt her. "What do you want?" she asked dully. "Why, there is an unfinished experiment. You must remember our
interrupted proceedings of a week ago! Have you already forgotten the
early steps of our experiment in evil?" Pat cringed at the cold, sardonic tones of the other. "Let me go," she
whimpered. "Please!" she appealed. "Let me go!" "In due time," he responded. "You lack gratitude," he continued. "Last
time, out of the kindness that is my soul, I permitted you to dull your
senses with alcohol, but you failed, apparently, to appreciate my
indulgence. But this time"--His eyes lit up queerly--"this time you
approach the consummation of our experiment with undimmed mind!" He approached her. She drew her knees up, huddling back on the couch,
and summoned the final vestiges of her strength. "I'll kick you!" she muttered desperately. "Keep back from me!" He paused just beyond her reach. "I had hoped," he said ironically, "if
not for your cooperation, at least for no further active resistance. It's quite useless; I told you days ago that this time would come." He advanced cautiously; Pat thrust out her foot, driving it with all
her power. Instantly he drew back, catching her ankle in his hand. He
jerked her leg sharply upwards, and she was precipitated violently to
the couch. Again he advanced. The girl writhed away from him. She slipped from the foot of the couch
and darted in a circle around him, turning in an attempt to gain the
room's single exit--the door by which they had entered. He moved
quickly to intercept her; he closed the door as she backed despairingly
away, retreating to the far end of the room. Once more he faced her,
his malicious eyes gleaming, and moved deliberately toward her. She drew back until the table halted her; she pressed herself against
it as if to force her way still further. The other moved at unaltered
pace. Suddenly her hand pressed over some smooth, round, hard object;
she grasped it and flung the grinning skull at the more terrible
face that approached her. He dodged; there was a crash of glass as
the gruesome missile shattered the pane of the cabinet of drugs. And
inexorably, Nicholas Devine approached once more. She moved along the edge of the table, squeezed herself between it and
the wall. Behind her was one of the room's two windows, curtainless,
with drawn shades. She found the cord, jerked it, and let the blind
coil upward with an abrupt snap. "I'll throw myself through the window!" she announced with a sort of
desperate calm. "Don't dare move a step closer!" The demon paused once more in his deliberate advance. "You will, of
course," he said as if considering. "Given the opportunity. Your body
torn and broken, spotted with blood--that might be a pleasure second
only to that I plan." "You'll suffer for it!" said the girl hysterically. "I'll be glad to do
it, knowing you'll suffer!" "Not I--your sweetheart." "I don't care! I can't stand it!" The other smiled his demoniac smile, and resumed his advance. She
watched him in terror that had now reached the ultimate degree; her
mind could bear no more. She turned suddenly, raised her arm, and beat
her fist against the pane of the window. With the surprising resistance glass sometimes displays, it shook at
her blow but did not shatter. She drew back for a second attempt,
and her upraised arm was caught in a rigid grip, and she was dragged
backward to the center of the room, thrown heavily to the floor. She
sat dazedly looking up at the form standing over her. "Must I render you helpless again?" queried the flat voice of the
other. "Are you not yet broken, convinced of the uselessness of this
struggle?" She made no answer, staring dully at his immobile features. "Are you going to fight me further?" As she was still silent, he
repeated, "Are you?" She shook her head vaguely. "No," she muttered. She had reached the
point of utter indifference; nothing at all was important enough now to
struggle for. "Stand up!" ordered the being above her. She pulled herself wearily to her feet, leaning against the wall. She
closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them dully as the other moved. "What--are you--are you going to do?" she murmured. "First," said the demon coldly, "I shall disrobe you somewhat more
completely than on our other occasion. Thereafter we will proceed to
the consummation of our experiment." She watched him indifferently, uncomprehendingly, as he crooked a thin
finger in the neck of her frock. She felt the pressure as he pulled,
heard the rip of the fabric, and the pop of buttons, but she was
conscious of no particular sensation as the garment cascaded into a
black and red pool at her feet. She stood passive as he hooked his
finger in the strap of her vest, and that too joined the little mound
of cloth. She shivered slightly as she stood bared to the waist, but
gave no other sign. Again the thin hand moved toward her; from somewhere in her tormented
spirit a final shred of resistance arose, and she pushed the questing
member feebly to one side. She heard a low, sardonic laugh from her
oppressor. "Look at me!" he commanded. She raised her eyes wearily; she drew her arm about her in a forlorn
gesture of concealment. Her eyes met the strange orbs of the other, and
a faint thrill of horror stirred; other than this, she felt nothing. Then his eyes were approaching her; she was conscious of the illusion
that they were expanding, filling all the space in front of her. Their
weird glow filled the world, dominated everything. "Will you yield?" he queried. The eyes commanded. "Yes," she said dully. She felt his hands icy cold on her bare shoulders. They traveled like a
shudder about her body, and suddenly she was pressed close to him. "Are you mine?" he demanded. For the first time there was a tinge of
expression in the toneless voice, a trace of eagerness. She made no
answer; her eyes, held by his, stared like the eyes of a person in a
trance, unwinking, fascinated. "Are you mine?" he repeated, his breath hissing on her cheek. "Yes." She heard her own voice in automatic reply to his question. "Mine--for the delights of evil?" "Yours!" she murmured. The eyes had blotted out everything. "And do you hate me?" "No." | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
The arms about her tightened into crushing bands. The pressure
stopped her breath; her very bones seemed to give under their fierce
compression. "Do you hate me?" he muttered. "Yes!" she gasped. "Yes! I hate you!" "Ah!" He twisted his hand in her black hair, wrenching it roughly back. "Are you ready now for the consummation? To look upon the face of evil?" She made no reply. Her eyes, as glassy as those of a sleep-walker,
stared into his. "Are you ready?" "Yes," she said. He pressed his mouth to hers. The fierceness of the kiss bruised her
lips, the pull of his hand in her hair was a searing pain, the pressure
of his arm about her body was a suffocation. Yet--somehow--there was
again the dawning of that unholy pleasure--the same degraded delight
that had risen in her on that other occasion, in the room of the
red-checked table cloth. Through some hellish alchemy, the leaden pain
was transmuting itself into the garish gold of a horrible, abnormal
pleasure. She found her crushed lips attempting a feeble, painful
response. At her movement, she felt herself swung abruptly from her feet. With
his lips still crushing hers, he raised her in his arms; she felt
herself borne across the room. He paused; there was a sudden release,
and she crashed to the hard surface of the couch, whose rough covering
scratched the bare flesh of her back. Nicholas Devine bent over her;
she saw his hand stretch toward her single remaining garment. And
again, from somewhere in her harassed soul, a spark of resistance
flashed. "Nick!" she moaned. "Oh, Nick! Help me!" "Call him!" said the other, a sneer on his face. "Call him! He hears;
it adds to his torment!" She covered her eyes with her hands. She felt his hand slip coldly
between her skin and the elastic about her waist. "Nick!" she moaned again. "Nick! Oh, my God! Nick!" 27
Two in Hell
The cold hand against Pat was still; she felt it rigid and stiff on
her flesh. She lay passive with closed eyes; having voiced her final
appeal, she was through. The words torn from her misery represented
the final iota of spirit remaining to her; and her bruised body and
battered mind had nothing further to give. The hand quivered and withdrew. For a moment more she lay motionless
with her arms clutched about her, then she opened her eyes, gazing
dully, hopelessly at the demon standing over her. He was watching her
with a curious abstracted frown; as she stirred, the scowl intensified,
and he drew back a step. His face contorted suddenly in a spasm of some unguessable emotion. His fists clenched; a low unintelligible mutter broke from his lips. "Strange!" she heard him say, and after a moment, "I'm still master
here!" He _was_ master; in a moment the emotion vanished, and he was again
standing over her, his face the same impassive demoniac mask. She
watched him in a dull stupor of despair that was too deep for even a
whimper of pain as he wrenched at the elastic about her waist, and it
cut into her flesh and parted. He tore the garment away, and the red
eyes bored down with a wild elation in their depths. "Mine!" the being muttered, a new hoarseness in his voice. "Are you
mine?" Pat made no answer; his voice croaked in more insistent tones. "Are you
mine?" She could not reply. She felt his fingers bite into the flesh of her
shoulder. She was shaken roughly, violently, and the question came
again, fiercely. The eyes flamed in command, and she felt through
her languor and weakness, the stirring of that strange and unholy
fascination that he held over her. "Answer!" he croaked. "Are you mine?" The torture of his searing grip on her shoulder wrung an answer from
her. "Yes," she murmured faintly. "Yours." She closed her eyes again in helpless resignation. She felt the
hand withdrawn, and she lay passive, waiting, on the verge of
unconsciousness, numb, spirit-broken, and beaten. Nothing happened. After a long interval she opened her eyes, and saw
the other standing again with clenched fists and contorted countenance. His features were writhing in the intensity of his struggle; a strange
low snarl came from his lips. He backed away from her, step by step; he
leaned against the book-shelves, and beads of perspiration formed on
his scowling face. He was no longer master! She saw the change; imperceptibly the evil
vanished from his features, and suddenly they were no longer his,
but the weary, horror-stricken visage of her Nick! The red eyes were
no longer Satanic, but only the blood-shot, troubled, gentle eyes of
her sweetheart, and the lips had lost their grimness, and gasped and
quivered and trembled. He reeled against the wall, staggered to the
chair at the table, and sank weakly into it. Pat was far too exhausted, far too dazed, to feel anything but the
faintest sensation of relief. She realized only dimly that tears were
welling from her eyes, and that sharp sobs were shaking her. She was
for the moment unable to stir, and it was not long until the being at
the table turned stricken eyes on her that she moved. Then she drew
her knees up before her, as if to hide her body behind their slim,
chiffon-clad grace. Nick rose from the table, approaching her with weary, hesitant tread. He seized a cover of some sort that was folded over the foot of the
couch, shook it out and cast it over her. She clutched it about her
body, sat erect and leaned back against the wall in utter exhaustion. Many minutes passed with no word from either of the occupants of the
unholy chamber. It was Nick who broke the long silence. "Pat," he murmured in low tones. "Pat--Dear. Are you--all right?" She stared at him dazedly without answer. "Honey!" he said. "Honey! Tell me you're all right!" "All right?" she repeated uncomprehendingly. "Yes. I guess I'm all
right." "Then go, Pat! Get away from here before he--before anything happens! Put your clothes on and hurry away!" "I can't!" she said, faintly. "I--can't!" "You must, Honey!" "I'm just--not able to. I will soon, Nick--honest. When I--when I get
my breath back." "Pat!" There was anguish in the cry. "Oh, God--Pat! We mustn't ever be
together again--not ever!" "No," she said. A bit of sanity was returning to her; comprehension of
her position sent a shudder through her. "No, we mustn't." "I couldn't bear another night like this--watching! I'd go mad!" "Oh!" she choked, tears starting. "If you hadn't come back, Nick!" "I conquered him," he said. "I don't think I could do it again. It was
your call that gave me the strength, Pat." He shook his head as if
bewildered. "He thought it was being in love with you that weakened me,
but in the end it was that which gave me the strength to subdue him." "I'm scared!" said the girl suddenly. "Oh, Nick! I'm frightened!" "You'd better go. You'd better dress and leave at once, Honey. Here." He gathered her clothes from the floor, depositing them beside her on
the couch. "There are pins in the tray on the table, Pat. Fix yourself
up as well as you can, dear--and hurry out of here!" | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
He turned toward the door as if to leave, and a shock of terror shook
her. "Nick!" she cried. "Don't go away! I'm more afraid when I can't see
you--afraid that _he_--" She broke off sobbing. "All right, Honey. I'll turn my back." She slipped out from under the blanket, found the pins, and repaired
her ruined costume. The frock was torn, crushed and bedraggled; she
pinned it together at the throat, though her trembling fingers made the
task difficult. She pulled it on and took a tentative step toward the
door. "Nick!" she called as a wave of dizziness sent her swaying against the
wall. "What's the matter, Honey?" He turned anxiously at her cry. "I'm dizzy," she moaned. "My head aches, and--I'm scared!" "Pat, darling! You can't go out alone like this--and," he added
miserably, "I can't take you!" He slipped his arm around her tenderly,
supporting her to the couch. "Honey, what'll we do?" "I'll be--all right," she murmured. "I'll go in a moment." The
dizziness was leaving her; strength was returning. "You must!" he said dolefully. "What a parting, Pat! Never to see you
again, and then having this to remember as farewell!" "I know, Nick. You see, I love you too." She turned her dark, troubled
eyes on him. "Honey, kiss me good-bye! We'll have that to remember,
anyway!" Tears were again on her cheeks. "Do I dare?" he asked despondently. "After the things these lips of
mine have said, and what these arms have done to you?" "But you didn't, Nick! Could I blame you for--that _other_?" "God! You're kind, Pat! Honey, if ever I win out in this battle, if
ever I know I'm the final victor, I'll--No," he said his tones dropping
abruptly. "I'll never come back to you, Pat. It's far too dangerous,
and--can I ever be certain? Can I?" "I don't know, Nick. Can you?" "I can't be, Pat! I'll never be sure that _he_ isn't just dormant, as
he was before, waiting for my weakness to betray me! I'll never be
certain, Honey! It _has_ to be good-bye!" "Then kiss me!" She clung to him; the room that had been so recently a chamber of
horrors was transformed. As she held him, as her lips were pressed to
his, she thought suddenly of the words of the demon, that Heaven and
Hell were always the same place. They had taken on a new meaning, those
words; she drew away from Nick and turned her tear-bright eyes tenderly
on his. "Honey," she murmured, "I don't want you to leave me. I don't want you
to go!" "Nor do I want to, Pat! But I must." "You mustn't! You're to stay, and we'll fight it out together--be
married, or any way that permits us to fight it through together." "Pat! Do you think I'd consent to that?" "Nick," she said. "Nick darling--It's worth it to me! I'm realizing it
now; I thought it wasn't--but it is! I can't lose you, Nick--anything,
even that _other_, is better than losing you." "You're sweet, Pat! You know I'd trade my very soul for that, but--No. I can't do it! And don't Honey, torture me by suggesting it again." "But I will, Nick!" She was speaking softly, earnestly. "You're worth
anything to me! If _he_ should kill me, you'd still be worth it!" She
gazed tenderly at him. "I'd want to die anyway without you!" "No more than I without you," he muttered brokenly. "But I won't do it,
Pat! I won't do that to you!" "I love you, Nick!" she said in a low voice. "I don't want to live
without you. Do you understand me, dear? I don't want to live without
you!" He stared at her somberly. "I've thought of that too," he said. "Pat--if I only believed that we'd be together after, together
_anywhere_, I'd say yes. If only I believed there _were_ an afterwards!" "Doesn't he prove that by his very existence?" "Your Doctor would deny that." "Doctor Carl never saw _him_, Nick. And anyway, even oblivion together
would be better than being separated, and far better than this!" He gazed at her silently. She spoke again. "That doesn't frighten me,
Nick. It's only losing you that frightens me, especially the fear of
losing you to _him_." He continued his silent gaze. Suddenly he drew her close to him, held
her in a tight, tender embrace. 28
Lunar Omen
After a considerable interval, during which Nick held the girl tightly
and silently in his arms, he released her, sat with his head resting
on his cupped palms in an attitude of deep study. Pat, beside him,
fell mechanically to repinning the throat of her frock, which had
opened during the moments of the embrace. He rose to his feet, pacing
nervously before her. "It isn't a thing to do on the impulse of a moment, Pat," he muttered,
pausing at her side. "You must see that." "It isn't the impulse of a moment." "But one doesn't abandon everything, the whole world, so easily,
Honey. One doesn't cast away a last hope, however forlorn a hope it may
be!" "Is there a hope, Nick?" she asked gently. "Is there a chance left to
us?" "I don't know!" His voice held an increasing tenseness. "Before
God--I--don't know!" "If there's a chance, the very slightest shadow of the specter of a
chance, we'll take it, won't we? Because the other way is always open
to us, Nick." "Yes. It's always open." "But we won't take that chance," she continued defiantly, "if it
involves my losing you, Honey. I meant what I said, Nick: I don't want
to live without you!" "What chance have we?" he queried somberly. "Those are our
alternatives--life apart, death together." "Then you know my choice!" she cried desperately. "Nick, Honey--don't
let's draw it out in futile talking! I can't stand it!" He moved his hand in a gesture of bewilderment and frustration, and
turned away, striding nervously toward the window whose blind she had
raised. He leaned his hands on the table, peering dejectedly out upon
the street below. "What time," he asked irrelevantly in a queer voice, "did the Doctor
say the moon rose? Do you remember?" "No," she said tensely. "Oh, Honey! Please--don't stand there with your
back to me now, when I'm half crazy!" "I'm thinking," he responded. "It rises a little earlier each night--or
is it later? No matter; come here, Pat." She rose wearily and joined him; he slipped his arm about her, and drew
her against him. "Look there," he said, indicating the night-dark vista beyond the
window. She looked out upon a dim-lit street or court, at the blind end of
which the house was apparently situated. Far off at the open end,
across a distant highway where even at this hour passed a constant
stream of traffic, flashed a narrow strip of lake; and above it, rising
gigantic from the coruscating moon-path, lifted the satellite. She
watched the remote flickering of the waves as they tossed back the
broken bits of the light strewn along the path. Then she turned puzzled
eyes on her companion. "That's Heaven," he said pointing a finger at the great flowing lunar
disk. "There's a world that never caught the planet-cancer called Life,
or if it ever suffered, it's cured. It's clean--burned clean by the
sun and scoured clean by the airless zero of space. A dead world, and
therefore not an unhappy one." | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
The girl stared at him without comprehension. She murmured, "I don't
understand, Nick." "Don't you, Pat?" He pointed again at the moon. "That's Heaven, the
dead world, and this is Hell, the living one. Heaven and Hell swinging
forever about their common center!" He gestured toward the sparkling
moon-path on the water. "Look, Pat! The dead world strews flowers on
the grave of the living one!" Some of his bitter ecstasy caught the girl; she felt his somber mood of
exaltation. "I love you, Nick!" she whispered, pressing closely to him. "What difference does it make--our actions?" he queried. "There's the
omen, that lifeless globe in the sky. Where we go, all humanity now
living will follow before a century, and in a million years, the human
race as well! What if we go a year or a million years before the rest? Will it make any difference in the end?" He looked down at her. "All
we've been valuing here is hope. To the devil with hope! Let's have
peace instead!" "I'm not afraid, Nick." "Nor I. And if we go, _he_ goes, and he's mortally afraid of death!" "Can he--prevent you?" "Not now! I'm the stronger now. For this time, I'm master." He turned again to stare at the glowing satellite as it rose
imperceptibly from the horizon. "There's nothing to regret," he
murmured, "except one thing--the loss of beauty. Beauty like that--and
like you, Pat. That's bitterly hard to foreswear!" He leaned forward
toward the remote disk of the moon; he spoke as if addressing it, in
tones so low that the girl, pressed close to him, had to quiet the
sound of her own breath to listen. He said:
"Long miles above cloud-bank and blast,
And many miles above the sea,
I watch you rise majestically
Feeling your chilly light at last--
Cold beauty in the way you cast
Split silver fragments on the waves,
As if this planet's life were past,
And all men peaceful in their graves." Pat was silent for a moment as he paused, then she murmured a low
phrase. "Oh, I love you, Nick!" she said. "And I you, dear," he responded. "Have we decided anything? Are
we--going through with it?" "I've not faltered," she said soberly. "I meant it, Nick. Without you,
life would be as empty as that airless void you speak of. I'm not
afraid. What's there to be afraid of?" "Only the transition, Pat. That and the unknown--but no situation could
possibly be more terrible than our present one. It _couldn't_ be! Oblivion, annihilation--they're preferable, aren't they?" "Oh, yes! Nothing I can imagine could be other than a change for the
better." "Then let's face it!" His voice took on a note of determination. "I've
thought to face it a dozen times before this, and each time I've
hesitated. The hesitation of a coward, Pat." "You're no coward, dear. It was that illusion of hope; that always
weakens one. No one's strong who hasn't given up hope." "Then," he repeated, "let's face it!" "How, Nick?" "My father has left us the means. There in the cabinet are a hundred
deaths--swift ones, lingering ones, painful, and easy! I don't know one
from the other; our choice must be blind." He strode over to the case,
sending slivers of glass from the shattered front glistening along
the floor. "I'd choose an easy one, Dear, if I knew, for your sake. Euthanasia!" He stared hesitantly at the files of mysterious drugs with their
incomprehensible labels. Suddenly the scene appeared humorous to the girl, queerly funny, in
some unnatural horrible fashion. Her nerves, overstrained for hours,
were on the verge of breaking; without realization of it, she had come
to the border of hysteria. "Shopping for death!" she choked, trying to suppress the wild laughter
that beat in her throat. "Which one's most suitable? Which one's most
becoming? Which one"--an hysterical laughing sob shook her--"will wear
the longest?" He turned, gazing at her with an illogical concern in his face. "What's the difference?" she cried wildly. "I don't care--painful or
pleasant, it all ends in the same grave! Close your eyes and choose!" Suddenly he was holding her in his arms again, and she was sobbing,
clinging to him frantically. She was miserably unstrung; her body
shook under the impact of her gasping breath. Then gradually, she
quieted, and was silent against him. "We've been mad!" he murmured. "It's been an insane idea--for me to
inflict this on you, Pat. Do you think I could consider the destruction
of your beauty, Dear? I've been lying to myself, stifling my judgment
with poetic imagery, when all the while it was just that I'm afraid to
face the thing alone!" "No," she murmured, burying her face against his shoulder. "I'm the
coward, Nick. I'm the one that's frightened, and I'm the one that broke
down! It's just been--too much, this evening; I'm all right now." "But we'll not go through with _this_, Pat!" "But we will! It's better than life without you, Dear. We've argued and
argued, and at last forgotten the one truth, the one thing I'll never
retract: I can't face living without you, Nick! I can't!" He brushed his hand wearily before his eyes. "Back at the starting
point," he muttered. "All right, Honey. So be it!" He strode again to the cabinet. "Corrosive sublimate," he murmured. "Cyanide of Potassium. They're both deadly, but I think the second is
rapid, and therefore less painful. Cyanide let it be!" He extracted two small beakers from the glassware on the shelf. He
filled them with water from a carafe on the table, and, while the girl
watched him with fascinated eyes, he deliberately tilted a spoonful or
so of white crystals into each of them. The mixture swirled a moment,
then settled clear and colorless, and the crystals began to shrink as
they passed swiftly into solution. "There it is," he announced grimly. "There's peace, oblivion,
forgetfulness, and annihilation for you, for me, and--for _him_! Beyond
all doubt, the logical course for us, isn't it? Do we take it?" "Please," she said faintly. "Kiss me first, Honey. Isn't that the
proper course for lovers in this situation?" She felt a faint touch of
astonishment at her own irony; the circumstances had ceased to have
any reality to her, and had become merely a dramatic sequence like the
happenings in a play. He gathered her again into his arms and pressed his lips to hers. It
was a long, tender, wistful kiss; when at last it ended, Pat found her
eyes again filled with tears, but not this time the tears of hysteria. "Nick!" she murmured. "Nick, darling!" He gave her a deep, somber, but very tender smile, and reached for one
of the deadly beakers, "To another meeting!" he said as his fingers
closed on it. Suddenly, amazingly, the strident ring of a doorbell sounded, the more
surprising since they had all but forgotten the existence of a world
about them. Interruption! It meant only the going through once more of
all that they had just passed. "Drink it!" exclaimed Pat impulsively, seizing the remaining beaker. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
29
Scopolamine for Satan
The glass was struck from Pat's hand, and the water-clear contents
streamed into pools and darkening blots over the table and its litter
of papers. She stared unseeingly at the mess, without realizing
that it was Nick who had dashed the draught from her very lips. She
felt neither anger nor relief, but only a numbness, and a sense of
anti-climax. Somewhere below the bell was ringing again, and a door was
resounding to violent blows, but she only continued her bewildered,
questioning gaze. "I can't let you, Pat!" he muttered, answering her unspoken query. "But Nick--why?" "There's somebody at the door, isn't there? Mustn't we find out who?" "What difference can it make?" she asked wearily. "I don't know. I want to find out." "It's that illusion of hope again," she murmured. "That's all it is,
Nick--and it means now that it's all to do over again! The whole thing,
from the beginning--and we were so near--the end!" "I know," he said miserably. "I know all that, but--" He paused as the
insistent racket below was redoubled. "I'm going to answer that bell,"
he ended. He moved away from her, vanishing through the room's single door. She
watched his disappearance without moving, but no sooner had he passed
from sight than a curious feeling of fear oppressed her. She cast off
the numbness and languor, and darted after him into the darkness of the
hall. "Nick!" she called. Somewhere ahead a light flashed on; she saw the
well of a stair-case, and heard his footsteps descending. She followed
in frantic haste, gaining the top step just as the pounding below
ceased. She heard the click of the door, and paused suddenly at the
sound of a familiar voice. "Where's Pat?" The words drifted up in low, rumbling, ominous tones. "Dr. Carl!" she shrieked. She ran swiftly down the stairs to Nick's
side, where he stood facing the great figure of the Doctor. "Dr. Carl! How'd you find me?" The newcomer gave her a long, narrow-eyed, speculative survey. "I
spent nearly the whole night doing it," he growled at last. "It took
me hours to locate Mueller and get this address from him." He stepped
forward, taking the girl's arm. "Come on!" he said gruffly, without a
glance at Nick standing silently beside her. "I'm taking you home!" She held back. "But why?" "Why? Because I don't like the company you keep. Is that reason enough?" She still resisted his insistent tug. "Nick hasn't done anything," she
said defiantly, with a side glance at the youth's flushed, unhappy
features. "He hasn't? Look at yourself, girl! Look at your clothes, and your
forehead! What's more, I saw enough from my window; I saw him bundle
you into that car!" His eyes were flashing angrily, and his grip on her
arm tightened, while his free hand clenched into an enormous fist. "That wasn't Nick!" "No. It was your devil, I suppose!" said Horker sarcastically. "Anyway,
Pat, you're coming with me before I do violence to what remains of your
devil!" Nick spoke for the first time since the Doctor's entrance. "Please do,
Pat," he said softly. "Please go with him." "I won't!" she snapped. The sudden shifts of situation during the long
hours of that terrible evening were irritating her. She had alternated
so rapidly between horror and hope and despair that her frayed nerves
had seized now at the same reality of anger. Her mind, so long overstrained, was now deliberately forgetting her
swing from the pit of terror to the verge of death. "You come up like a
hero to the rescue!" she taunted the doctor. "Hairbreadth Horker!" "You little fool!" growled the Doctor. "A fine reception, after
losing a night's sleep! I'll drag you home, if I have to!" He moved
ponderously toward the door; she gave a violent wrench and freed her
arm from his grasp. "If you can, you mean!" she jeered. She looked at his exasperated face,
and suddenly, with one of her abrupt changes of mood, she softened. "Dr. Carl, Honey," she said in apologetic tones, "I'm sorry. You're
very sweet, and I'm really grateful, but I can't leave Nick now." Her
eyes turned troubled. "Not now." "Why, Pat?" Mollified by the change in her mien, his voice rumbled in
sympathetic notes. "I can't," she repeated. "It's--it's getting worse." "Bah!" "So it's 'Bah'!" she flared. "Well, if you're so contemptuous of the
thing, why don't you cure it? What good did your psychoanalysis do? You
don't even know what it is!" "What do you expect?" roared the Doctor. "Can I diagnose it by absent
treatment? I haven't had a chance to see the condition active yet!" "All right!" said Pat, her strained nerves driving her to impatience. "You're here and Nick's here! Go on with your diagnosis; get it over
with, and let's see what you can do. _You_ ought at least to be able
to name the condition--the outstanding authority in the Middle West on
neural and mental pathology!" Her tone was sardonic. "Listen, Pat," said Horker with exaggerated patience, in the manner of
one addressing a stupid child, "I've explained before that I can't get
at the root of a mental aberration when the subject's as unstrung as
your young man here seems to be. Psychoanalysis just won't work unless
the subject is calm, composed, and not in a nervous state. Can you
comprehend that?" "Just dimly!" she snapped. "You ought to know another way--you, the
outstanding authority--"
"Be still!" he interrupted gruffly. "Of course I know another way,
if I wanted to drag all of us back to my office, where I have the
equipment!--which I won't do tonight," he finished grimly. "Then do it here." "I haven't what I need." "There's everything upstairs," said Pat. "It's all there, all Nick's
father's equipment." "Not tonight! That's final." The girl's manner changed again. She turned troubled, imploring eyes
on Horker. "Dr. Carl," she said plaintively, "I can't leave Nick now." She seized the arm of the silent, dejected youth, who had been standing
passively by. "I can't leave him, really. I'd not be sure of seeing him
again, ever. Please, Dr. Carl!" "If these frenzies of yours," rumbled Horker, "are so violent and
malicious, you ought to be confined. Do you know that, young man?" "Yes, sir," mumbled Nick wretchedly. "And I've thought of it," continued the Doctor. "I've thought of it!" "Please!" cried Pat imploringly. "Won't you try, Dr. Carl?" "The devil!" he growled. "All right, then." He followed the girl up the stairs, while Nick trailed disconsolately
behind. She led him back into the chamber they had quitted, where a
curious odor of peach pits seemed to scent the air. Horker sniffed
suspiciously, then seized the remaining beaker, raising it cautiously
to his nostrils. "Damnation!" he exploded. "Prussic acid--or cyanide! What in--" He
caught sight of Pat's tragic eyes, and suddenly replaced the container. "Pat!" he groaned. "Pat, Honey!" He drew her into the circle of his
great arm. "I'll help you, dear! All I can, with all my heart, since
it means that much to you!" He groaned again under his breath. "Oh, my
God!" | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
He held her a moment, patting her tousled black head with his massive,
delicate fingered hand. Then he released her, turning to Nick. "This the stuff?" he asked, brusquely, indicating the cabinet of
bottles, with its splintered front. Nick nodded. Pat sank to the chair beside the table and watched Horker
as he scanned the array of containers. He pulled out a tiny wooden case
and snapped it open to reveal a number of steel needles that glinted
brightly in the yellow light. He grunted in satisfaction and continued
his inspection. "Atropine," he muttered, reading the labeled boxes. "Cocaine, daturine,
hyoscine, hyoscyamine--won't do!" "What do you need?" the girl queried faintly. "A mild hypnotic," said the Doctor abstractedly, still searching. "Pretty good substitutes for psychoanalysis--certain drugs. Dulls the
conscious mind, but not to complete unconsciousness. Good means of
getting at the subconscious. See?" "Sort of," said Pat. "If it only works!" "Oh, it'll work if we can find--ah!" He seized a tiny cardboard box. "Scopolamine! This'll do the work." He extracted a tiny glassy something from one or other of the boxes he
held, and frowned down at it. He seized the carafe of water, plunged
something pointed and shiny into it. "Antiseptic," he muttered thoughtfully. He seized a brown bottle from
the case, held it toward the light, and shook it. "Peroxide's gone
flat," he growled. "Nothing but water." He pulled a silver cigar-lighter from his pocket and snapped a yellow
flame to it. He passed the point of the hypodermic rapidly back and
forth through the little spear of fire. Finally he turned to Nick. "Take off your coat," he ordered. "Roll up your shirt sleeve--the left
one. And sit over there." He indicated the couch along the wall. The youth obeyed without a word. The only indication of emotion was a
long, miserable, wistful look at Pat as he seated himself impassively
on the spot that the girl had so recently occupied. "Now!" said the Doctor briskly, approaching the youth. "This will make
you drowsy, sleepy. That's all it'll do. Don't fight the effect. Just
relax, let the thing take its course, and I'll see what I can get out
of you." Pat gasped and Nick winced as he drove the needle into the bared arm. "So!" he said. "Now relax. Lean back and close your eyes." He stepped to the door, dragged in a battered chair from the hall,
and occupied it. He sat beside Pat, watching the pale features of the
youth, who sat quietly with closed eyes, breathing slowly, heavily. "Long enough," muttered Horker. He raised his voice. "Can you hear me?" he called to the motionless figure on the couch. There was no response,
but Pat fancied she saw a slight change in Nick's expression. "Can you hear me?" repeated Horker in louder tones. "Yes, I can hear you," came in icy tones from the figure on the couch. Pat started violently as the voice sounded. The eyes opened, and she
saw in sudden terror the ruddy orbs of the demon! 30
The Demon Free
Pat emitted a small, startled shriek, and heard it echoed by a
surprised grunt from Dr. Horker. "Queer!" he muttered. "The stuff must be mislabeled. Scopolamine
doesn't act like this; it's a narcotic." "He's--the other!" gasped Pat, while the being on the couch grinned
sardonically. "Eh? An attack? Can't be!" The Doctor shook his head emphatically. "It's not Nick!" cried the girl in panic. "You're not, are you?" she
appealed to the grim entity. "Not your sweetheart?" queried the creature, still with his mocking
leer. "A few hours ago you were lying here all but naked, confessing
you were mine. Have you forgotten?" She shuddered at the reference, and shrank back in her chair. She heard
the Doctor's ominous, angry rumble, and the evil tittering chuckle of
the other. "Pathological or not," snapped Horker, "I can resent your remarks! I've
considered several times varying my treatment with another solid cut to
the jaw!" He rose from his chair, stamping viciously toward the other. "A moment," said Nicholas Devine. "Do you know what you've done? Have
you any idea what you've done?" He turned cool, mocking, red-glinting
eyes on the Doctor. "Huh?" Horker paused as if puzzled. "What _I've_ done? What do you
mean?" "You don't know, then." The other gave a satyric smile. "You're stupid;
I gave you the clue, yet you hadn't the intelligence to follow it. Do you know what I am?" He leaned forward, his eyes leering evilly
into the Doctor's. "I'll tell you. I'm a question of synapses. That's
all--merely a question of synapses!" He tittered again, horribly. "It
still means nothing to you, doesn't it, Doctor?" "I'll show you what it means!" Horker clenched a massive fist and
strode toward the figure, whose eyes stared, steadily, unwinkingly into
his own. "Back!" the being snapped as the great form bent over him. The Doctor
paused as if struck rigid, his arm and heavy fist drawn back like the
conventional fighting pose of a boxer. "Go back!" repeated the other,
rising. Pat whimpered in abject terror as she heard Horker's surprised
grunt, and saw him recede slowly, and finally sink into his chair. His
bewildered eyes were still fixed on those of Nicholas Devine. "I'll tell you what you've done!" said the strange being. "You've freed
me! There was nothing wrong with your scopolamine. It worked!" He
chuckled. "You drugged _him_ and freed me!" Horker managed a questioning grunt. "I'm free!" exulted the other. "For the first time I haven't _him_ to
fight! He's here, but helpless to oppose me--he's feeble--feeble!" He
gave again the horrible tittering chuckle. "See how weak the two of you
are against my unopposed powers!" he jeered. "Weaklings--food for my
pleasures!" He turned his eyes, luminous and avid, on Pat. "This time," he said,
"there'll be no interruptions. A witness to our experiment will add a
delicate touch of pleasure--"
He broke off at the Doctor's sudden movement. Horker had snatched
a glistening blue revolver from his pocket, held it leveled at the
lust-filled eyes. "Huh!" growled the Doctor triumphantly. "Do you think I come trailing a
maniac without some protection? Especially a vicious one like you?" Nicholas Devine turned his eyes on his opponent. He stared long and
intently. "Drop it!" he commanded at length. Pat felt a surge of chaotic terror
as the weapon clattered to the floor. She turned a frightened glance on
Horker's face, and her fright redoubled at the sight of his straining
jaw, the perspiration-beaded forehead, and his bewildered eyes. The
demon kicked the gun carelessly aside. "Puerile!" he said contemptuously. He backed away from them, re-seating
himself on the couch whence he had risen. He surveyed the pair in
sardonic mirth. "Pat!" muttered the Doctor huskily. "Get out of here, Honey! He's got
some hellish trick of fascination that's paralyzed me. Get out and get
help!" The girl moved as if to rise. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |
Nicholas Devine shifted his eyes for the
barest instant to her face; she felt the strength drain out of her
body, and she sank weakly to her chair. "It's useless," she murmured hopelessly to the Doctor. "He's--he's just
what I told you--a devil!" "I guess you were right," mumbled Horker dazedly. There was a burst of demonic mirth from the being on the couch. "Merely
a matter of synapses," he rasped, chuckling. His face changed, took
on the familiar coldness, the stony expression Pat had observed there
before. "This palls!" he snapped. "I've better amusement--after we've
rendered your friend merely an interested on-looker." He narrowed his
red eyes as if in thought. "Take off a stocking," he ordered. "Tie his
hands to the back of the chair." "I won't!" said the girl. The eyes shifted to her face. "I won't!" she
repeated tremulously as she kicked off a diminutive pump. She shuddered
at the gleam in the evil eyes as she stripped the long silken sheath
from a white, rounded limb. She slipped a bare foot into the pump and
moved reluctantly behind the chair that held the groaning Horker. She
took one of the clenched, straining hands, and drew it back, fumbling
with shaking fingers as she twisted the strip of thin chiffon. The
demon moved closer, standing over her. "Loose knots!" he snarled abruptly. He knocked her violently away with
a stinging slap across her cheek, and seized the strip in his own
hands. He drew the binding tight, twisting it about the lowest rung of
the chair's ladder back. Horker was forced to lean awkwardly to the
rear; in this unbalanced position it was quite impossible to rise. Nicholas Devine turned away from the straining, perspiring Doctor, and
advanced toward Pat, who cowered against the shattered cabinet. "Now!" he muttered. "The experiment!" He chuckled raspingly. "What
delicacy of degradation! Your lover and your guardian angel--both
helpless watchers! Excellent! Oh, very excellent!" He grasped her wrist, drawing her after him to the center of the room,
into the full view of the horrified, staring eyes of Horker. "Always before," continued her tormentor, "these hands have prepared
you for the rites--the ceremony that failed on two other occasions
to transpire. Would it add a poignancy to the torture if I made you
strip this body of yours with your own hands? Or will they suffer more
watching me? Which do you think?" Pat closed her eyes in helpless resignation to her fate. "Nick!" she
moaned. "Oh, Nick dearest!" "Not this time!" sneered the other. "Your friend and protector, the
Doctor, has thoughtfully eliminated your sweetheart as a factor. He
struggles too feebly for me to feel." "Nick!" she murmured again. "Dr. Carl!" But the Doctor, now pulling painfully at his bonds, could only groan in
distraction, and curse the unsuspected strength of sheer chiffon. He
writhed miserably at the chafing of his wrists; his strange paralysis
had departed, but he was quite helpless to assist Pat. "I think," said the cold tones of Nicholas Devine, "that the more
delicate torture lies in your willingness. Let us see." He drew her into his arms. He twisted a hand in her hair, jerked her
head violently backward, and pressed avid lips to hers. She struggled a
little, but hopelessly, automatically. At last she lay quite passive,
quite motionless, supported by his arms, and making not the slightest
response to his kiss. "Are you mine?" he queried fiercely, releasing her lips. "Are you mine
now?" She shook her head without opening her eyes. "No," she said dully. "Not
now, or ever." Again he crushed her, while the Doctor looked on in helpless,
bewildered, voiceless anger. This time his kiss was painful, burning,
searing. Again that unholy fascination and unnatural delight in her own
pain stirred her, and it took what little effort she was able to make
to keep from responding. After a long interval, his lips again withdrew. "Are you mine?" he repeated. She made no answer; she was gasping,
and tears glistened under her closed eye-lids, from the pain of her
crushed lips. Again he kissed her, and again the wild abandonment to
evil suffused her. She was suddenly responding to his agonizing caress;
she was clinging fiercely to his torturing lips, feeling an unholy
exaltation in the pain of his tearing fingers in the flesh of her back. "Yours!" she murmured in response to his query. She heard her voice
repeat madly, "Yours! Yours! Yours!" "Do you yield willingly?" came the icy tones of the demon. "Yes--yes--yes! Willingly!" "Take off your clothes!" sounded the terrible, overpowering voice. He
thrust her from him, so that she staggered dizzily backward. She stood
swaying; the voice repeated its command. The girl's eyes widened wildly; she had the appearance of one in an
ecstasy, a religious fervor. She raised her hand with a jerky impulsive
gesture to the neck of her frock, still pinned together in the
makeshift repairs of the evening. There came a strange interruption. The Doctor, helpless on-looker,
had at length evolved an idea out of the bewilderment in his mind. He
opened his mouth and emitted a tremendous, deep, ear-shattering bellow! Nicholas Devine sent the girl spinning to the floor with a vicious
shove, and turned his blazing eyes on Horker, who was drawing in his
breath for a repetition of his roar. "Quiet!" he rasped, his red orbs
boring down at the other. "Quiet, or I'll muffle you!" Closing his
eyes, the Doctor repeated his mighty shout. The demon snatched the blanket from the couch, tossing it over the
figure of the Doctor, where it became a billowing, writhing heap of
brown wool. He turned his gaze on Pat, who was just struggling to her
feet, and moved as if to advance toward her. He paused. She had retrieved the Doctor's revolver from the floor, and
now faced him with the madness gone out of her eyes, supporting the
weapon with both hands, the muzzle wavering toward his face. "Drop it!" he commanded. She felt a recurrence of fascination, and an
impulse to obey. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Doctor's
head emerging from the blanket as he shook it off. "Drop it!" repeated Nicholas Devine. She closed her eyes, shutting out the vision of his dominant visage. With a surge of terror, she squeezed the trigger, staggering back to
the couch at the roar and the recoil. She opened her eyes. Nicholas Devine lay in the center of the room on
his face; a crimson spot was matting the hair on the back of his head. She saw the Doctor raise a free hand; he was working clear of his bonds. "Pat!" he said softly. He looked at her pale, sickened features. "Honey," he said, "sit down till I get free. Sit down, Pat; you look
faint." "Never faint!" murmured the girl, and pitched backward to the couch,
with one clad and one bare leg hanging in curious limpness over the
edge. 31
"Not Humanly Possible"
Pat opened weary eyes and gazed at a blank, uninformative ceiling. It
was some moments before she realized that she was lying on the couch in
the room of Nicholas Devine. | Weinbaum, Stanley G. (Stanley Grauman) - The Dark Other |