Thursday's Serial: "Babes in Toyland" by Glen MacDonough (in English) - IV

 

SCENE II Street Scene: Roderigo enters left with Gonzorgo.

Roderigo - It's a cold world, Gonzorgo; unless something turns up, I shall worry myself into a stew.

Gonzorgo - Worry yourself into two stews if possible- one for me!

Roderigo - Is it true what the gypsy said, are you married now?

Gonzorgo - No, my wife passed away a year ago. The light of my life has gone, but I'd like to strike another match!

Roderigo - And here comes a possible flame! It's the Widow Piper.

Gonzorgo - My woodland fllower!--

Roderigo - Why do you call her a woodland flower?

Gonzorgo - She'll grow wild, if someone doesn't cultivate her!

Widow - (entering right) Have you seen anything of a young lady who answers to the name of Mary?

Roderigo - (tenderly) You--Bernice?

Gonzorgo - (tenderly) Infatuated girl, why have you followed me here?

Widow - (recognizing them) Oh, Master Barnaby's friends!

Roderigo - Fate has mixed us up again.

Widow - (to Gonzorgo) Have you forgotten what Floretta, the Fawn of the Forest told me? You are married!

Gonzorgo - 'Tis false, you are the only girl I ever loved. Don't seek further for a husband!

Widow - Find my daughter Mary for me and I shall consider it!

Gonzorgo - What is she like?

Widow - She's only 15, very pretty, and very brainy. Here's a description of her written on this paper. Find her and you may be lucky! (exits)

Gonzorgo - (to Roderigo) If you were a young girl very pretty and very brainy, what would you do?

Roderigo - I'd enter a beauty contest.

Gonzorgo - No, I said brainy. Brains! But if she is going to marry old Barnaby, you could use her for a blue print to make an idiot!

Roderigo - Yes, old Barnaby is 45, and she's only 15. He's three times as old.

Gonzorgo - Yes and in five years he'll be fifty and she'll be 20, then he'll only be two and a half times as old.

Roderigo - Yes and in 15 years he'll be sixty and she'll be thirty then he'll only be twice as old!

Gonzorgo - How long will she have to wait before they become the same age?

Roderigo - (reading from the paper) The paper says she left with someone else. It reads, "The missing twain". Say, what does twain mean?

Gonzorgo - Twain, it means two!

Roderigo - What?

Gonzorgo - Two -two! Twain!

Roderigo - You're too old to be talking baby talk!

Gonzorgo - My dear Watson, this is a very baffling case.

Roderigo - Don't you know a good solution?

Gonzorgo - Yes, boracic acid, that's a good solution. Now the girl has been stolen by some desperate criminial, now let's both concentrate. Who is the worst criminal you know?

Roderigo & Gonzorgo - (point at each other) You!!

(Marmaduke enters.)

Marmaduke - Hold! I'm searching for Contrary Mary! Taking you at your face value, you're both under arrest!

Gonzorgo - You can't arrest us, we've just been appointed detectives. I appointed him.

Roderigo - (indicating Gonzorgo) And I appointed him!

Marmaduke - I will now give you the third degree!

Gonzorgo - Oh good, we're going to join a lodge!

Marmaduke - Have you ever committed any crimes?

Roderigo & Gonzorgo - No! We swear it by our right hands. (they raise their left hands)

Marmaduke - (producing bottle) This is truth serum wine! The liquid lie detector, quaff of it and you will tell the truth. (hands it to Roderigo) You drink!

Roderigo - I'm as honest as (drinks) - as the best bank robber and confidence man. How I laughed when I sold people shares in a Hidden Treasure....

Marmaduke - (to Gonzorgo) And you, you drink!

Gonzorgo - You doubt my honor. (drinks) Wow! I am the king of larceny and arsony. And crooked slot machines!

Marmaduke - Two very desperate cases! What was your most serious crime?

Roderigo - I worked for the Eureka Get Rich Quick Company. I sold lottery tickets!

Gonzorgo - And I sold Stock for the Wild Cat gold mine.

Marmaduke - You are master criminals! (takes bottle) Here's to crime! (takes drink) ...I was The Eureka Get Rich Quick Company!

Black Out or exit of Marmaduke, and dance specialty for Roderigo & Gonzorgo.)

 

 

SCENE III The Master Toymaker's toyshop. Workmen discovered: Tom Tom enters from door L.C.

Tom - Thanks to that friendly vine next to my prison windows, I am free! (turns to workman.)

I have a summons for the Master Toymaker from the court Royal!

Workman - You'll find him inside.

Tom - But I do not know him what does he look like?

Workman - You don't know the master toymaker? You must be a new-comer in Toyland!

Tom - I am. But my father came here when I was a lad, and many times he talked about it.

Workman - There is much to talk about here!

Tom - I remember he had many fond memories of Toyland!

NUMBER: TOYLAND: Tom-Tom and male chorus; or as vocal number

(Enter Toymaker from door L.)

Toymaker - Well, what can I do for you? Looking for a pretty toy?

Tom - (indignantly) Sir! Do I look as though I came from the nursery? (hands Toymaker document)

A summons from the Court Royal to the master Toymaker.

Toymaker - (looking at paper) Ah, yes. Say to the Prefect I'll be on hand at the appointed time. Now, run along, little boy! (Tom Tom exits L.C.) Max, the bill for the toys we shipped today.

Max - (handing bill) The consignment is ready, sir!

Toymaker - Put the goods on board at once! The captain sends word he sails immediately.

(Max and Workman exit R. and L.C.)

(Toymaker left on stage. Bus. Places paper on the mantel-piece and goes back to the table, watches the last character off R. Hurriedly closes door, returns to table, pours contents from phial into large flask with left hand; leaving right hand free to work switch after exhibition of sparks.)

Toymaker - (calls) Grumio!

Grumio - (entering) Yes, sir!

Toymaker - The secret I have sought for years still mocks me. A thousand times have I sought to find the element that makes the charm complete. Within this crystal glass, there dwells a score of demon spirits drawn by spells and incantations. There, there, is the charm that will give me dominion over the souls of evil! That I may bid them enter the toys and mannikins.

(works flask again, Jill enters right during his motion)

Jill - (aside) This has nothing to do with toy making I'm sure! I must find out the secret! (conceals herself, in cabinet up R. A knock L.C. Toymaker without turning)

Toymaker - Come in! (Grumio enters L.C. followed by two men. One carries wine cask, the other a table with cheese, cookies, etc.)

Grumio - Here's a cask of wine sent you by an old gentleman named Barnaby!

Toymaker - (rising, going right) Put it down, I'm in no mood for it right now! (exits R.)

(Men places articles and exeunt)

Grumio - I can never do anything right! (takes cookie) I'm bewitched like the place. They say it's haunted! It does seem horrible, Maybe a little drink will steady my nerves! (taps the wine cask and takes a drink) This place isn't half bad at that! (takes 2nd drink) No, sir, this place is all right! (candle drops) Ghosts! Spirits! I'd better get some spirits to fight this! (other business follows, causing additional fright. Jill enters from cabinet) Am I seeing things?

Jill - I'm not a thing, you remember me, I'm Jill!

Grumio - Oh, yes, two Jills make one pint, two pints make on drunk, ...

Jill - You're intoxicated.

Grumio - Don't talk like that, girls!

Jill - Girls?

Grumio - My mistake, I've had a couple of drinks.

Jill - Two drinks, and I'm girls! If you had 5 drinks I'd be quintuplets!

Grumio - You don't like me, do you?

Jill - In spite of your faults, I think you're the tops!

Grumio - I must be the top, my head is still spinning. But come, my Princess, it is gay tonight in Vienna - there is music, wine and waltzing. Will you waltz with me?

Jill - No - but if you'll come out of Vienna - I might dance with you.

(DANCING SPECIALTY, or they waltz to an exit)

(Workmen enter with Toymaker)

Toymaker - What's this? Men, clear away the ruin. The scamp has been at the wine! (examines articles on the table, as if they have been damaged. Men exit after clearing stage. Barnaby looks in at L.C.)

Barnaby - Here I am according to appointment. (coming down) Have you thought over my offer?

Toymaker - For toys that will maim and injure children?

Barnaby - Something tells me you would put your whole heart into the work.

Toymaker - (sneeringly) Your liberality would call for that much interest.

Barnaby - Your final answer?

Toymaker - (taking him Center) What would you say to a doll with the spirit of a fiend controlling it? Would it not be a dainty gift for a child one dislikes?

Barnaby - A doll with the soul of a demon, a master thought! (he grasps Toymaker's hand)

Toymaker - Come back in the twilight, in the interval I'll experiment again. (Indicates table left)

Barnaby - I pray for your success. (exits L.C.)

(Grumio enters feigning exhaustion)

Toymaker - Aha! You scoundrel, you drank my wine, didn't you?

Grumio - No, sir, I was just testing it for you! The captain of the ship wants to see you on board at once!

Toymaker - (impatiently) What about?

Grumio - It's something about the cargo you're sending.

Toymaker - Very well! And when I return call my attention to the fact that you are to be discharged. (exits.)

Grumio - Yes, sir. (going quickly to door R.) Bring the wrappings, Jill! You men bring these crates! Alan and Jane will travel in style!... (Men bring in 2 packing boxes, exeunt. Alan & Jane enter L.C.)

Alan - How about us? How are you going to get us out of the country, your ship sails in an hour.

Grumio - You go as freight.

Alan - You mean as dolls?

Grumio - You'll be taken on board the ship, that's bound for your country in those. (indicting crates)

Alan - Be sure we're marked fragile, this side up!

Jane - And I hope I'm sent F.O.B. Free of bumps!

Alan - Jane, take care of yourself!

(Jane steps into open crate)

Grumio - So far, so good!

(Mary enters just before Grumio can get down into crate)

Mary - Grumio, I want you to run out and match this sample.

Alan - (aside) It's Mary!

Mary - (giving Grumio bit of ribbon) Quickly, please, four yards. Bring it back at once.

Grumio - (going reluctantly) That doll's all right. (points to Alan) You needn't bother about him, Mam'selle.

Mary - Hurry! Hurry! (Grumio exits L.C. Mary looks at Alan, starts violently) Only a wooden dummy with no sense and yet he reminds me so much of Alan! (turns right)

Alan - (aside) In this game I am the dummy!

Mary - (looking at Alan) Poor boy, it's very like him. I could almost imagine we were alone together. If he's meant for an officer, he needs something to show his rank. (goes to work table and gets properties) Shall I sew them on? No, it would be quicker and safer to nail them on his chest. (looks on table for tacks and hammer) I might nail on a few yards of fresh gold braid while it's on my mind.

Alan - (aside) Your mind, oh, don't mind me!

Mary - This will do, and this- (tries medals on Alan's coat) Dear, dear, but you are like Alan! (angrily)

I wish you were, that's all! To believe that I'd forget you for such a creature as Barnaby! Will I ever see you again? Oh Alan where are you now, I wonder! (turns away)

Alan - (aside) So, you're wondering too!

Mary - Will you ever come back and say "Mary I'm dreadfully sorry I was all wrong?" And you know what I would do, I would embrace you, Alan! (embraces him)

(Alan slowly embraces her; she is surprised and startled)

Mary - Why, what is the matter with this machine? It must be out of order! (tries to break away)

Alan - Mary!

Mary - It is you, Alan, after all!

Alan - And now you say something like I'll forgive you Alan.

Mary - I do, I do!

Alan - And I'll say Mary I was dreadfully sorry, I was all wrong. Because you knew all the time...

Mary - Yes, I knew all the time that you loved me.

Alan - Oh, Mary! (puts arms around her.)

SONG. Number Alan & Mary; after number:

Mary - But Alan, you in this costume,--what does it mean?

Alan - It means that Grumio is going to ship us home as dolls on a boat that sails in an hour or two!

Mary - In that case, where is Jane?

Alan- (pointing to crate) In that case!

Toymaker - (enters L.C. Alan resumes a toy attitude) Getting that toy ready for shipment?

Mary - Yes, sir.

Toymaker - Something wrong with his machinery. (Alan moves his hand automatically) I'll attend to that before he goes to Siberia.

Alan - (aside) Siberia!

(Man enters with marking pot and brush, used for marking packing cases)

Mary - (alarmed) Oh, he doesn't go to Siberia, he's billed to--to--

Toymaker - (to working man) Cross out the address on those crates, and write these. (handing workman also a slip of paper) Send that to his Majesty, the Sultan of Beejumbo! It's going to be a surprise for the Sultan's harem!

Alan - (aside) Ah, a harem!

Mary - Pardon me, sir, but aren't you getting them mixed? (points to Alan)

Alan - (aside) Oh no, he isn't getting them mixed.

Toymaker - So I am. It's the Dutch Doll that goes to the Sultan. (points to Jane's crate, and workman paints new address on it)

Mary - (touching Alan) This one is broken.

Toymaker - There's time to fix him. He goes by caravan tomorrow. He's bound for Kalamazooskie, Eastern Siberia.

Alan - (aside) Kalamazooskie sounds like a long way from home.

Toymaker - His uniform needs something.

Alan - (aside) If I'm going to Siberia, I need an overcoat.

Mary - But he can't be fixed inside of a week, and the Dutch Doll isn't all right, either. (points to Jane's crate)

Toymaker - What's the matter with her?

Mary - She needs a new face.

Alan - (aside) I'm glad Jane can't hear that.

Mary - You can't send those wax faces to hot countries. They melt. She ought to have a wooden head like this. (raps Alan's head)

Toymaker - Oh I'll take the risk of sending that doll to Beejumbo. (two workingmen enter; to them) Put that box on the ship that sails for the far East.

(Men carry Jane's crate off)

(Pantomines business by Alan)

                                                                                          And as for that doll, (indicating Alan) Within the hour, Max shall have his works spread upon the table! (exits L.)

Alan - He's not going to give me the works!

Mary - Here's a dreadful fix, how is Jane going to get out of it? (crash off stage L.C.) What's that?

Alan - That's Jane always crashing in some place where she's not wanted.

Mary - We must help her. I'll run and see what I can do! (exits L.C.)

Alan - I'll find Grumio. Where are you Grumio, Grumio, Grumio? (door L.3. opens, Alan assumes toy pose, Toymaker enters L.3., goes to table, turns and looks towards flask)

Toymaker - Now once more to seek the missing element! It will give me dominion over the souls of evil! (works switch, the glow appears) The light! The light! Can it be at last success!! (turns to flash again and cries in ecstasy) I triumph! I triumph!! (smokes appears.) The spirits of evil I bid you enter the forms I have fashioned in human shape! (toy figures move on stage) It is true at last I have found the spell at last. They turn to me, their master! Fiends, all the fiends! (turns to Alan) Speak, speak, you live!

Alan - Undo your work, before it is too late!

Toymaker - There is gratitude, I give you human form, I take you from the gloom, and you reproach me!

Alan - Take care, these things have only murder in their hearts. (the dolls take threatening attitudes)

Toymaker - I do not fear them.

Alan - Look there! (pointing to doll who approaches Toymaker with knife)

Toymaker - (turning quickly) Ah! (the doll retreats. A murmur of defiance from the others. He shows terror) Obey, or else I'll send your souls back to the abyss from which I brought them.

Alan - You've lost. You gave them life to hate and slay and kill. And you will be their first victim!

Toymaker - No! No! No!

Alan - Your commands are vain! (dolls advance to attack Toymaker.) Stop, stop, I say!

FINALE: (NOTE: POSSIBLE DANCE MACABRE USED HERE.)

(The dolls kill the Toymaker and escape)

(Alan left with the Toymaker, tries to revive him)

(Barnaby enters, and accuses Alan of killing Toymaker)

(he summons Roderigo and Gonzorgo.)

(They carry the Toymaker off at signal from Barnaby. Left alone, Barnaby shows his delight at his success of schemes against Alan. The dolls appear armed with clubs, broomsticks etc. and they fall upon Barnaby, and gives him a sound beating, he howls for mercy, (see score) - on the curtain falls)

 

Wednesday's Good Reading: "The Better Choice" by Clifford Martin Eddy (in English)

 

1

Two more hours to live!

The thought of his approaching death did not seem to cause John Castle much concern. Indeed, he fondled almost lovingly the capsule that contained the deadly drug. To die—and then to live again! For countless centuries the wisest men of all lands had vainly sought the secret he possessed. He held the world in the hollow of his hand! Yet he was barely thirty. All the years of middle age stretched ahead in which to enjoy his fame.

On the work-bench before him were the two large glass jars containing the chemicals he had mixed with his own hands. In one corner of the laboratory stood the machine which would transform these chemicals into the life-giving vapor. Upon these inanimate, unfeeling properties he must pin his faith; must launch out upon the Great Adventure dependent upon these alone to prove that his logic vras not at fault, that he was really master of eternal life.

He realized, of course, that there was a possibility of failure, and he had laid his plans accordingly. He was carrying life insurance to the amount of ten thousand dollars. The powerful drug the capsule in his hand contained was another of his own formulae and would leave absolutely no trace that he was a suicide.

The note to Montague White was already written. He knew that he could trust White to carry out his instructions to the letter. He had grown up with “Monty” from knickerbocker days. He held the friendship of this man next only to that of his wife and little ones. Playmates at school; chums in college; pals now. Although the business world had claimed Monty, he still dropped in for an occasional confab with the scientist, and under the latter’s tutelage had learned enough of laboratory methods to make Castle feel that he could safely trust the project to him. Besides, the letter explained everything so clearly that it left no loophole for any possible error.

Castle glanced once more at the clock upon the mantelpiece. There was still time for one last test before he died. Not that he feared anything might go wrong, but he felt that he needed the added assurance that such an experiment would give him. After all, it was a momentous step he was about to take.

He wheeled the cumbersome machine from its place in the corner and connected it to the socket in the chandelier. He measured a small quantity of each of the chemicals from the glass jars and emptied them into the bag-shaped body of the machine. Then he switched on the current and waited until time enough had elapsed to vaporize the chemicals.

He crossed to a crate at the other end of the room, and from it brought the cold, starlc body of a guinea pig. Two days before, he had put this animal to death by a small portion of the drug the capsule contained. He wheeled the machine up to the workbench and placed the body of the animal beside it.

Three long rubber tubes dangled from the grotesque machine. John Castle inserted one of these in each of the guinea-pig’s nostrils. He gently pried open the little animal’s mouth, and placed the end of the third between its teeth. Last of all, he turned the stop-cock that released the vapor, and anxiously watched the result of his experiment.

One minute — two — three — four — five—ah!

His keen eyes detected the scarcely perceptible pulsation of the animal’s body as the heart began to beat, once more. Stronger and stronger grew the throbbings, till at length, with a tiny frightened squeal, the resurrected guinea pig jumped from the workbench and scurried across the floor.

A hundred times in the last few' weeks John Castle had performed this miracle—a hundred different animals had been slaughtered by him and then granted a new lease of life. His was not an idle dream. But one step remained, and that step he was now ready to take: to prove that this same new' lease of life could be given to man.

Smiling complacently, John Castle locked the door of the laboratory behind him and made his way to his bedroom. Once there he made his usual preparations for retiring, drew the covers snugly about him and, still smiling, placed the capsule of death between his lips and closed his eyes.

 

2

John Castle’s astral self floated idly over the bed where the lifeless shell that had been his earthly body lay. It was rather an odd sensation, this being freed from the bodily prison one had occupied so long. It was quite an unusual feeling, too, to look at oneself from the viewpoint of an outsider.

So he was dead, at last. He wasn’t quite sure that he liked the idea of being dead, after all. Suppose something should go wrong? Suppose the machine should fail to resuscitate him? But then, it could not fail, he assured himself. It was perfect, without a flaw.

He wondered what his wife would do when she awoke, a few hours hence, and found him dead. At the thought of his wife, he found himself transported to her boudoir. As he drifted over the spot where her graceful form lay sleeping, her features lighted with a radiant smile, as if she sensed his presence there.

He sighed as he thought of leaving the children behind, even for a few short hours. Once more the scene changed, this time to the nursery, with its two cribs, where his little boy and girl slept the sweet, innocent, dreamless sleep of childhood.

Locked doors proved no barrier to John Castle in his new form. A sudden desire for one last look at his laboratory, and he was inside. Yes, everything was just as he had left it before embarking on this perilous voyage.

All at once, Castle sensed another occupant of the deserted room, but not a soul could he see. He could feel the presence of someone else by his side. An invisible hand touched his elbow, and a voice spoke into his ear: “Come, John, it’s time we were moving on.”

John Castle turned in the direction of the voice. Still he could perceive no one. He felt no fear, only an eery sensation at the novelty of the situation.

“Moving on? Whither? And who are you, to dictate whither I go?”

“Calm yourself, my dear John,” the voice returned; “I happen to be appointed to guide you through nebulous infinities to your ultimate eternal goal. You see, John, you no longer direct your own destiny. The physical ‘you’ has ceased to be.”

The newly-dead man felt an irresistible tug at his arm. He might just as well go along, he reflected; might just as well get the most out of this experience before his invention recalled him to his earthly body. With a last, long, backward glance at the old, familiar surroundings, he drifted through the windowpane and out into the night, the pressure of the invisible hand guiding him as they floated along.

Par up above the earth they made their way, high up into the azure of the clear sky where myriad twinkling stars lighted their path.

As they mounted, ever higher, it was if a veil fell from John Castle’s eyes. The air swarmed with astral bodies like his own. He could distinguish men and women from all walks of life—clerks, bankers, laborers, artists, all rubbed elbows in the most cosmopolitan fashion. But what impressed John Castle most forcibly, what made him realize that these were creatures different from those of the sphere he had left behind, was that each and all of the passers-by were as transparent as the glass in his laboratory window. He could see them, know that they were there, yet look directly through them!

He fell to speculating as to the sensation he would create when, after being pronounced dead by the physicians, he would live and breathe once more. He wondered whether, when he should tell them of his findings in the land beyond, they would believe, or scoff at him.

His ethereal companion seemed to read his thoughts.

“John Castle, have you entirely discounted the possibility of failure? Have you never Btopped to wonder why other scientists have never succeeded in obtaining the power over life and death you assume you control?”

Failure... assume... slowly, surely, the scientist realized the appalling inference in the specter’s words. Was he to fail despite his carefully laid plans? Must he really die and leave behind, forever, all that he loved and cherished ? Had he been a fool even to dream of matching his man-made science against the great All-Power who ruled the universe? A wave of bafflement swept over him, a sense of distinct loss, a feeling that he had been cheated. Yes, that was it, exactly—cheated! Just at the moment when fame seemed to be within his grasp, two-score years short of man’s allotted span; forced to leave home, wife and children while hundreds, thousands of others with not half his opportunities or interests in life lived to a ripe old age!

Again his ghostly guide divined his mood.

“Have you forgotten that your life was taken by your own hand? However, John, there is no room for discontent in the realm whither we are bound. Just what would you consider fair?”

“I would go back to earth as I had planned and live my life according to my own dictates. No one there would be the wiser—no one knows yet that I have died. Grant me just another twenty years of life, and I would be content to leave the world behind.”

John Castle’s companion sighed.

“I fear, John, that even then you would not be satisfied. For a good many centuries, now, I have guided souls from earth to eternity, and I have not yet found one who did not protest at severing his connection with the world below. Sometimes we find it necessary to send a soul back to earth for a few more years that he may learn to resign himself to the inevitable. It may be thus with you. But, first of all, you must come with me.”

He swerved sharply to the left, and soon they left the hurrying throng of astral wanderers far behind. Both fell silent as they traced their meteoric course, mounting higher and higher till the topmost star gleamed far below them in the vast universe.

John Castle became suddenly conscious of encompassing gloom, an illimitable ocean of inky darkness that engulfed him—a darkness so intense that the blackness hurt his eyes— dark, with the darkness of night; black, with the blackness of purgatory.

A tiny point of light appeared in the center of the black void. Slowly it grew, until it became a bright, spinning ball of golden yellow; larger and larger, till its brightness almost blinded him. The whirling slackened and John Castle discerned figures moving about in the nebulous mass. An unseen, magnetic power drew him into the vortex to join them. As he yielded to this uncontrollable impulse, he heard the voice of the stranger in his ear:

“Behold, John Castle, what Fate holds in store should you return to the land whence you came!”

 

3

John castle, wild-eyed, staring, let the latest message slip from nerveless fingers to the floor, and crumpled into his desk chair.

God! How his head throbbed! The Strain of the past few weeks had been nerve-racking, nerve-breaking. And now it was all over. This was the end. Home, money, reputation, everything swept away in one mighty, colossal upheaval, that left him penniless, ruined!

He wished he were dead! Then he thought of the odd nightmare he had had so many years before. He had never forgotten that dream. He remembered how he had pleaded with the ghostly stranger for a new lease of life—let him think: he had asked for twenty extra years. The time must be nearly up. How he wished the dream had been true, that the ethereal visitor would come now to take him out of his misery.

Well he knew who was responsible for his downfall. It was Montague White—damn his soul!

As near as he could remember, that crazy vision of his had been the beginning of it all.

He had always laid that dream to the effect of the drug he had taken. Somehow he had miscalculated the effect of the poison and it had failed to do its work. Then, he was glad; now, he wished it had killed him. Dream, vision, whatever it had been, it had so unnerved him that he had been unable to continue his laboratory experiments. His letter to White, the machine itself, he had destroyed.

Then, at his solicitation, White had taken him into his office. They made an ideal team: Castle, the genius, the brains of the combination; White, the doer, the balance wheel. Together they formed an unusually successful pair. In an incredibly short time he found himself a partner in the business. Then came the quarrel. He couldn’t even remember what it had been about, but he recollected how he had left the office in a blind rage.

Once alone, he had begun to amass a tremendous fortune. A modem Midas, everything he touched turned to gold. But for every dollar he made an enemy. Merciless, showing no quarter, he crushed his victims with as little compunction as a thoughtless boy smashes a tiny ant. Now the tables were turned. Now lie was the fly, his enemies the spiders who lay in the far corner of the web they had spun for him, waiting until he became enmashed in their toils. Not a single stone was left unturned; his failure was as sure as the sound of Gabriel's horn. And he knew that Montague White was behind it all. An insane demoniac light glittered in his bloodshot eyes. He opened his desk drawer, and the bright barrel of a thirty-two gleamed in the sunlight. He snapped open the chambers and looked them through, all the while fondling the weapon as if it were a child, talking to it in low, soothing tones. He loaded the revolver and dropped it into the pocket of his coat. Then, donning his hat, he set out upon his appointed mission—to find White and beg enough from him to insure his rehabilitation.

Failing in that—he shrugged his shoulders and his hand sought the weapon in his pocket. He found Montague White in his office, alone. The interview was brief and decisive. The sound of the shot brought a hundred people to the scene, and they found the half-crazed man standing above the body of his victim, the smoking revolver still in his hand. Strong arms gripped him from behind; firm hands took the smoldering weapon from his grasp. In the solitude of the lone, dreary cell, the brainstorm passed, and to John Castle came realization of the enormity of his crime. He clenched his fists until his nails bit deep into the flesh. His brow was furrowed with a thousand wrin-kles and the veins stood out in bold relief against his white, set face. He thought of his son, now grown to young manhood. How proud he was of the boy, his first born. "A true son of his father," everyone had said. He had pictured a wonderful future for the lad. Now. . . . His daughter was one of the sear son's most popular debutantes. The eligible males in her set were fairly falling over each other in their fran-tic endeavors to find favor in her eyes. But now he had killed. .. . He shuddered at the thought, and covered his eyes with his hand ; as if by so doing he might shut out the ever recurring vision of his victim. His wife, the woman who had borne and cared for his children ; the woman he loved with all his heart and with all his soul ! Now by this one rash deed he had stolen everything from her—home, happiness, reputation—all must go because Montague White was dead, and his own hands had done the killing ! Would to God that it were his own body that lay cold and stark instead of his former partner's! Would that he had died twenty years before, when he could have left behind him a spot-less name! Again his dream of years before came back to him with startling vividness. Perhaps it had not been all a dream. If only he could have looked ahead, how willing he would have been to die ! But he had not died. Instead he had lived on, each day weaving the chain of circumstances more tightly about him—and now he was here, behind prison bars, a murderer! All night long John Castle paced the narrow confines of his cell. All night long his tortured mind revolted at the horror, the gruesome reality of it all. At last, worn out with the strain of the ordeal, just as the first rays of the morning sun peeped over the hilltops—the sun whose light was never seen inside the prison's cold, gray walls—he flung himself in sheer exhaustion upon his cot, and dropped off into fitful slumber. The next few days were fraught with untold agony for John Castle. A hundred times a day he prayed that death might come and release him from his sufferings. But the law cold, hard, unrelenting—took care that he should live until he had paid in full for the deed he had done, live to expiate his crime. At last came the trial. The jury made short work of the case. John Castle was not at all surprized at their verdict. There was nothing else they could have decided : "Guilty of murder in the first degree." He drew himself erect as the old judge pronounced sentence. At least no one could accuse him of not meet-ing the situation like a man hanged by the neck until he is dead." There was a calendar on the wall of his cell. John Castle ringed the date which the law had set for his execution. As each day dragged by he checked it off upon the calendar, and prayed that the time would pass more swiftly. The nearest he came to breaking down was on the eve of his death, when his wife came to bid him a final farewell.

The next morning, his last on earth, a young priest came and asked a bless-ing for his sin-steeped soul. Then attendants led him on his last walk, through the narrow corridor lined with cells, out into the morning, out to where the scaffolding reared ghastly and forbidding against the gray walls of the prison. The sun had not risen nor would John Castle see it rise, for with its first beams his life would be snuffed out like a candle. He walked boldly upright to his place on the platform. of death. He marveled at his inward calm as they fitted the black hood over his head and shut out forever the world about him. He felt the weight of the hemp-en collar as they placed it about his neck; then—waited! In that last long moment his mind reverted to his weird dream—or was it a dream? He had figured it all out in the loneliness of his cell. It was twenty years to a day ! He won-dered if the ethereal stranger would be there to meet him and guide him to the seat of judgment. . . He would not have long to wait before he knew!

The flooring gave way beneath him. His body dropped . . . a sudden, terrific jolt . . . then oblivion!

 

4

The blinding effulgence again became a whirling, chaotic jumble. Gradually it diminished, until it was but a tiny revolving point. Then it was gone altogether, leaving intense, impenetrable blackness.

“Come, John,” the voice was saying, “the time grows short. Already upon the earth the stars have waned and the sun is starting its daily journey. You have seen what the future holds in store, should you choose to return to the life you have left behind. I repeat, there is no place here for the soul that is not content. The decision is yours.”

John Castle could not repress an involuntary shudder at the thought of what he had just witnessed. After all, perhaps man was not the best judge of his own destiny ! As he hesitated, the ethereal figure of his guide faded out before his eyes.

An invisible power gripped him, propelled him at breath-taking speed toward the earth. He wondered what could exert such a tremendous power. The answer came in a flash.

It was morning. They had found his body. White was manipulating the machine! It seemed hours, yet he knew it could have been but a mere minute before his astral body once more hovered above his inert physical one. His guess had been correct—White was at the machine. He could see his letter of instructions on the table beside the empty jars that had contained the last of his life-giving mixture. His wife and children were there, too, their tear-stained faces watching with prayerful intentness. His comprehensive survey glimpsed the family physician eying the proceedings with a supercilious sneer.

He felt the magnetic, irresistible power of his invention drawing his soul back into his body. How wonderful it would be! To die—and then to live again! Once more came that vision of the scaffold. Once more came memories of long hours fraught with misery, spent behind prison bars...

The watchers in the little room saw John Castle's eyelids twitch feebly. A hand moved. They stared, spell-bound, as it described an arc toward his head. White sprang forward with a sharp cry as the hand closed over the three rubber tubes that connected the man and the machine. Too late! One wrench, with a strength that seemed inconsistent with the wan figure on the bed, and the damage was done.

John Castle had made his choice!

As he drifted once more into un-consciousness, he could faintly hear Montague White's hoarse cry of horror: “Good God! Mrs. Castle! He's broken the machine!”

Tuesday's Serial: “Lavengro” by George Borrow (in English) - XX

 

 

Chapter 39

no authority whatever—interference—wondrous farrago—brandt and struensee—what a life!—the hearse—mortal relics—great poet—fashion & fame—a difference—good for nothing

 

And now once more to my pursuits, to my Lives and Trials. However partial at first I might be to these lives and trials, it was not long before they became regular trials to me, owing to the whims and caprices of the publisher. I had not been long connected with him before I discovered that he was wonderfully fond of interfering with other people's business—at least with the business of those who were under his control. What a life did his unfortunate authors lead! He had many in his employ toiling at all kinds of subjects—I call them authors because there is something respectable in the term author, though they had little authorship in, and no authority whatever over, the works on which they were engaged. It is true the publisher interfered with some colour of reason, the plan of all and every of the works alluded to having originated with himself; and, be it observed, many of his plans were highly clever and promising, for, as I have already had occasion to say, the publisher in many points was a highly clever and sagacious person; but he ought to have been contented with planning the works originally, and have left to other people the task of executing them, instead of which he marred everything by his rage for interference. If a book of fairy tales was being compiled, he was sure to introduce some of his philosophy, explaining the fairy tale by some theory of his own. Was a book of anecdotes on hand, it was sure to be half filled with sayings and doings of himself during the time that he was common councilman of the City of London. Now, however fond the public might be of fairy tales, it by no means relished them in conjunction with the publisher's philosophy; and however fond of anecdotes in general, or even of the publisher in particular—for indeed there were a great many anecdotes in circulation about him which the public both read and listened to very readily—it took no pleasure in such anecdotes as he was disposed to relate about himself. In the compilation of my Lives and Trials I was exposed to incredible mortification, and ceaseless trouble, from this same rage for interference. It is true he could not introduce his philosophy into the work, nor was it possible for him to introduce anecdotes of himself, having never had the good or evil fortune to be tried at the bar; but he was continually introducing—what, under a less apathetic government than the one then being, would have infallibly subjected him, and perhaps myself, to a trial,—his politics; not his Oxford or pseudo politics, but the politics which he really entertained, and which were of the most republican and violent kind. But this was not all; when about a moiety of the first volume had been printed, he materially altered the plan of the work; it was no longer to be a collection of mere Newgate lives and trials, but of lives and trials of criminals in general, foreign as well as domestic. In a little time the work became a wondrous farrago, in which Königsmark the robber figured by the side of Sam Lynn, and the Marchioness de Brinvilliers was placed in contact with a Chinese outlaw. What gave me the most trouble and annoyance was the publisher's remembering some life or trial, foreign or domestic, which he wished to be inserted, and which I was forthwith to go in quest of and purchase at my own expense: some of those lives and trials were by no means easy to find. 'Where is Brandt and Struensee?' cries the publisher; 'I am sure I don't know,' I replied; whereupon the publisher falls to squealing like one of Joey's rats. 'Find me up Brandt and Struensee by next morning, or—' 'Have you found Brandt and Struensee?' cried the publisher, on my appearing before him next morning. 'No,' I reply, 'I can hear nothing about them'; whereupon the publisher falls to bellowing like Joey's bull. By dint of incredible diligence, I at length discover the dingy volume containing the lives and trials of the celebrated two who had brooded treason dangerous to the state of Denmark. I purchase the dingy volume, and bring it in triumph to the publisher, the perspiration running down my brow. The publisher takes the dingy volume in his hand, he examines it attentively, then puts it down; his countenance is calm for a moment, almost benign. Another moment and there is a gleam in the publisher's sinister eye; he snatches up the paper containing the names of the worthies which I have intended shall figure in the forthcoming volumes—he glances rapidly over it, and his countenance once more assumes a terrific expression. 'How is this?' he exclaims; 'I can scarcely believe my eyes—the most important life and trial omitted to be found in the whole criminal record—what gross, what utter negligence! Where's the life of Farmer Patch? where's the trial of Yeoman Patch?'

'What a life! what a dog's life!' I would frequently exclaim, after escaping from the presence of the publisher.

One day, after a scene with the publisher similar to that which I have described above, I found myself about noon at the bottom of Oxford Street, where it forms a right angle with the road which leads or did lead to Tottenham Court. Happening to cast my eyes around, it suddenly occurred to me that something uncommon was expected; people were standing in groups on the pavement—the upstair windows of the houses were thronged with faces, especially those of women, and many of the shops were partly, and not a few entirely, closed. What could be the reason of all this? All at once I bethought me that this street of Oxford was no other than the far-famed Tyburn way. Oh, oh, thought I, an execution; some handsome young robber is about to be executed at the farther end; just so, see how earnestly the women are peering; perhaps another Harry Simms—Gentleman Harry as they called him—is about to be carted along this street to Tyburn tree; but then I remembered that Tyburn tree had long since been cut down, and that criminals, whether young or old, good-looking or ugly, were executed before the big stone gaol, which I had looked at with a kind of shudder during my short rambles in the City. What could be the matter? Just then I heard various voices cry, 'There it comes!' and all heads were turned up Oxford Street, down which a hearse was slowly coming: nearer and nearer it drew; presently it was just opposite the place where I was standing, when, turning to the left, it proceeded slowly along Tottenham Road; immediately behind the hearse were three or four mourning coaches, full of people, some of whom, from the partial glimpse which I caught of them, appeared to be foreigners; behind these came a very long train of splendid carriages, all of which, without one exception, were empty.

'Whose body is in that hearse?' said I to a dapper-looking individual, seemingly a shopkeeper, who stood beside me on the pavement, looking at the procession.

'The mortal relics of Lord Byron,' said the dapper-looking individual, mouthing his words and smirking—'the illustrious poet, which have been just brought from Greece, and are being conveyed to the family vault in ---shire.'

'An illustrious poet, was he?' said I.

'Beyond all criticism,' said the dapper man; 'all we of the rising generation are under incalculable obligation to Byron; I myself, in particular, have reason to say so; in all my correspondence my style is formed on the Byronic model.'

I looked at the individual for a moment, who smiled and smirked to himself applause, and then I turned my eyes upon the hearse proceeding slowly up the almost endless street. This man, this Byron, had for many years past been the demigod of England, and his verses the daily food of those who read, from the peer to the draper's assistant; all were admirers, or rather worshippers, of Byron, and all doated on his verses; and then I thought of those who, with genius as high as his, or higher, had lived and died neglected. I thought of Milton abandoned to poverty and blindness; of witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs; and starving Otway: they had lived neglected and despised, and, when they died, a few poor mourners only had followed them to the grave; but this Byron had been made a half god of when living, and now that he was dead he was followed by worshipping crowds, and the very sun seemed to come out on purpose to grace his funeral. And, indeed, the sun, which for many days past had hidden its face in clouds, shone out that morn with wonderful brilliancy, flaming upon the black hearse and its tall ostrich plumes, the mourning coaches, and the long train of aristocratic carriages which followed behind.

'Great poet, sir,' said the dapper-looking man, 'great poet, but unhappy.'

Unhappy? yes, I had heard that he had been unhappy; that he had roamed about a fevered, distempered man, taking pleasure in nothing—that I had heard; but was it true? was he really unhappy? was not this unhappiness assumed, with the view of increasing the interest which the world took in him? and yet who could say? He might be unhappy, and with reason. Was he a real poet after all? might he not doubt himself? might he not have a lurking consciousness that he was undeserving of the homage which he was receiving? that it could not last? that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame? He was a lordling, a glittering, gorgeous lordling: and he might have had a consciousness that he owed much of his celebrity to being so; he might have felt that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame. Fashion soon changes, thought I, eagerly to myself—a time will come, and that speedily, when he will be no longer in the fashion; when this idiotic admirer of his, who is still grinning at my side, shall have ceased to mould his style on Byron's; and this aristocracy, squirearchy, and what not, who now send their empty carriages to pay respect to the fashionable corpse, shall have transferred their empty worship to some other animate or inanimate thing. Well, perhaps after all it was better to have been mighty Milton in his poverty and blindness—witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs, and starving Otway; they might enjoy more real pleasure than this lordling; they must have been aware that the world would one day do them justice—fame after death is better than the top of fashion in life. They have left a fame behind them which shall never die, whilst this lordling—a time will come when he will be out of fashion and forgotten. And yet I don't know; didn't he write Childe Harold and that ode? Yes, he wrote Childe Harold and that ode. Then a time will scarcely come when he will be forgotten. Lords, squires, and cockneys may pass away, but a time will scarcely come when Childe Harold and that ode will be forgotten. He was a poet, after all, and he must have known it; a real poet, equal to—to—what a destiny! Rank, beauty, fashion, immortality,—he could not be unhappy; what a difference in the fate of men—I wish I could think he was unhappy . . .

I turned away.

'Great poet, sir,' said the dapper man, turning away too, 'but unhappy—fate of genius, sir. I, too, am frequently unhappy.'

Hurrying down a street to the right, I encountered Francis Ardry.

'What means the multitude yonder?' he demanded.

'They are looking after the hearse which is carrying the remains of Byron up Tottenham Road.'

'I have seen the man,' said my friend, as he turned back the way he had come, 'so I can dispense with seeing the hearse—I saw the living man at Venice—ah, a great poet.'

'Yes,' said I, 'a great poet, it must be so, everybody says so—what a destiny! What a difference in the fate of men; but 'tis said he was unhappy; you have seen him, how did he look?'

'Oh, beautiful!'

'But did he look happy?'

'Why, I can't say he looked very unhappy; I saw him with two . . . very fair ladies; but what is it to you whether the man was unhappy or not? Come, where shall we go—to Joey's? His hugest bear—'

'Oh, I have had enough of bears, I have just been worried by one.'

'The publisher?'

'Yes.'

'Then come to Joey's, three dogs are to be launched at his bear: as they pin him, imagine him to be the publisher.'

'No,' said I, 'I am good for nothing; I think I shall stroll to London Bridge.'

'That's too far for me—farewell.'

 

 

Chapter 40

london bridge—why not?—every heart has its bitters—wicked boys—give me my book—a fright

 

So I went to London Bridge, and again took my station on the spot by the booth where I had stood on the former occasion. The booth, however, was empty; neither the apple-woman nor her stall was to be seen. I looked over the balustrade upon the river; the tide was now, as before, rolling beneath the arch with frightful impetuosity. As I gazed upon the eddies of the whirlpool, I thought within myself how soon human life would become extinct there; a plunge, a convulsive flounder, and all would be over. When I last stood over that abyss I had felt a kind of impulse—a fascination; I had resisted it—I did not plunge into it. At present I felt a kind of impulse to plunge; but the impulse was of a different kind; it proceeded from a loathing of life. I looked wistfully at the eddies—what had I to live for?—what, indeed! I thought of Brandt and Struensee, and Yeoman Patch—should I yield to the impulse—why not? My eyes were fixed on the eddies. All of a sudden I shuddered; I thought I saw heads in the pool; human bodies wallowing confusedly; eyes turned up to heaven with hopeless horror; was that water or—? Where was the impulse now? I raised my eyes from the pool, I looked no more upon it—I looked forward, far down the stream in the far distance. Ha! what is that? I thought I saw a kind of Fata Morgana, green meadows, waving groves, a rustic home; but in the far distance—I stared—I stared—a Fata Morgana—it was gone. . . .

I left the balustrade and walked to the farther end of the bridge, where I stood for some time contemplating the crowd; I then passed over to the other side with an intention of returning home; just half-way over the bridge, in a booth immediately opposite to the one in which I had formerly beheld her, sat my friend, the old apple-woman, huddled up behind her stall.

'Well, mother,' said I, 'how are you?' The old woman lifted her head with a startled look.

'Don't you know me?' said I.

'Yes, I think I do. Ah, yes,' said she, as her features beamed with recollection. 'I know you, dear; you are the young lad that gave me the tanner. Well, child, got anything to sell?'

'Nothing at all,' said I.

'Bad luck?'

'Yes,' said I, 'bad enough, and ill usage.'

'Ah, I suppose they caught ye; well, child, never mind, better luck next time; I am glad to see you.'

'Thank you,' said I, sitting down on the stone bench; 'I thought you had left the bridge—why have you changed your side?'

The old woman shook.

'What is the matter with you,' said I; 'are you ill?'

'No, child, no; only—'

'Only what? Any bad news of your son?'

'No, child, no; nothing about my son. Only low, child—every heart has its bitters.'

'That's true,' said I; 'well, I don't want to know your sorrows; come, where's the book?'

The apple-woman shook more violently than before, bent herself down, and drew her cloak more closely about her than before. 'Book, child, what book?'

'Why, blessed Mary, to be sure.'

'Oh, that; I ha'n't got it, child—I have lost it, have left it at home.'

'Lost it,' said I; 'left it at home—what do you mean? Come, let me have it.'

'I ha'n't got it, child.'

'I believe you have got it under your cloak.'

'Don't tell any one, dear; don't—don't,' and the apple-woman burst into tears.

'What's the matter with you?' said I, staring at her.

'You want to take my book from me?'

'Not I, I care nothing about it; keep it, if you like, only tell me what's the matter?'

'Why, all about that book.'

'The book?'

'Yes, they wanted to take it from me.'

'Who did?'

'Why, some wicked boys. I'll tell you all about it. Eight or ten days ago, I sat behind my stall, reading my book; all of a sudden I felt it snatched from my hand, up I started, and see three rascals of boys grinning at me; one of them held the book in his hand. "What book is this?" said he, grinning at it. "What do you want with my book?" said I, clutching at it over my stall; "give me my book." "What do you want a book for?" said he, holding it back; "I have a good mind to fling it into the Thames." "Give me my book," I shrieked; and, snatching at it, I fell over my stall, and all my fruit was scattered about. Off ran the boys—off ran the rascal with my book. Oh dear, I thought I should have died; up I got, however, and ran after them as well as I could; I thought of my fruit, but I thought more of my book. I left my fruit and ran after my book. "My book! my book!" I shrieked, "murder! theft! robbery!" I was near being crushed under the wheels of a cart; but I didn't care—I followed the rascals. "Stop them! stop them!" I ran nearly as fast as they—they couldn't run very fast on account of the crowd. At last some one stopped the rascal, whereupon he turned round, and flinging the book at me, it fell into the mud; well, I picked it up and kissed it, all muddy as it was. "Has he robbed you?" said the man. "Robbed me, indeed; why he had got my book." "Oh, your book," said the man, and laughed, and let the rascal go. Ah, he might laugh, but—'

'Well, go on.'

'My heart beats so. Well, I went back to my booth and picked up my stall and my fruits, what I could find of them. I couldn't keep my stall for two days I got such a fright, and when I got round I couldn't bide the booth where the thing had happened, so I came over to the other side. Oh, the rascals, if I could but see them hanged.'

'For what?'

'Why, for stealing my book.'

'I thought you didn't dislike stealing,—that you were ready to buy things—there was your son, you know—'

'Yes, to be sure.'

'He took things.'

'To be sure he did.'

'But you don't like a thing of yours to be taken.'

'No, that's quite a different thing; what's stealing handkerchiefs, and that kind of thing, to do with taking my book? there's a wide difference—don't you see?'

'Yes, I see.'

'Do you, dear? well, bless your heart, I'm glad you do. Would you like to look at the book?'

'Well, I think I should.'

'Honour bright?' said the apple-woman, looking me in the eyes.

'Honour bright,' said I, looking the apple-woman in the eyes.

'Well then, dear, here it is,' said she, taking it from under her cloak; 'read it as long as you like, only get a little farther into the booth—Don't sit so near the edge—you might—'

I went deep into the booth, and the apple-woman, bringing her chair round, almost confronted me. I commenced reading the book, and was soon engrossed by it; hours passed away, once or twice I lifted up my eyes, the apple-woman was still confronting me: at last my eyes began to ache, whereupon I returned the book to the apple-woman, and, giving her another tanner, walked away.