Thursday's Serial: “The Importance of Being Earnest: A Trivial Comedy for Serious People” by Oscar Wilde (in English) - the end.

 

THIRD ACT

SCENE - Morning-room at the Manor House.

[Gwendolen and Cecily are at the window, looking out into the garden.]

GWENDOLEN - The fact that they did not follow us at once into the house, as any one else would have done, seems to me to show that they have some sense of shame left.

CECILY - They have been eating muffins. That looks like repentance.

GWENDOLEN - [After a pause.] They don’t seem to notice us at all. Couldn’t you cough?

CECILY - But I haven’t got a cough.

GWENDOLEN - They’re looking at us. What effrontery!

CECILY - They’re approaching. That’s very forward of them.

GWENDOLEN - Let us preserve a dignified silence.

CECILY - Certainly. It’s the only thing to do now. [Enter Jack followed by Algernon -  They whistle some dreadful popular air from a British Opera.]

GWENDOLEN - This dignified silence seems to produce an unpleasant effect.

CECILY - A most distasteful one.

GWENDOLEN - But we will not be the first to speak.

CECILY - Certainly not.

GWENDOLEN - Mr. Worthing, I have something very particular to ask you. Much depends on your reply.

CECILY - Gwendolen, your common sense is invaluable. Mr. Moncrieff, kindly answer me the following question. Why did you pretend to be my guardian’s brother?

ALGERNON - In order that I might have an opportunity of meeting you.

CECILY - [To Gwendolen - ] That certainly seems a satisfactory explanation, does it not?

GWENDOLEN - Yes, dear, if you can believe him.

CECILY - I don’t. But that does not affect the wonderful beauty of his answer.

GWENDOLEN - True. In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity is the vital thing. Mr. Worthing, what explanation can you offer to me for pretending to have a brother? Was it in order that you might have an opportunity of coming up to town to see me as often as possible?

JACK - Can you doubt it, Miss Fairfax?

GWENDOLEN - I have the gravest doubts upon the subject. But I intend to crush them. This is not the moment for German scepticism. [Moving to Cecily - ] Their explanations appear to be quite satisfactory, especially Mr. Worthing’s. That seems to me to have the stamp of truth upon it.

CECILY - I am more than content with what Mr. Moncrieff said. His voice alone inspires one with absolute credulity.

GWENDOLEN - Then you think we should forgive them?

CECILY - Yes. I mean no.

GWENDOLEN - True! I had forgotten. There are principles at stake that one cannot surrender. Which of us should tell them? The task is not a pleasant one.

CECILY - Could we not both speak at the same time?

GWENDOLEN - An excellent idea! I nearly always speak at the same time as other people. Will you take the time from me?

CECILY - Certainly. [Gwendolen beats time with uplifted finger.]

GWENDOLEN and CECILY - [Speaking together.] Your Christian names are still an insuperable barrier. That is all!

JACK and ALGERNON - [Speaking together.] Our Christian names! Is that all? But we are going to be christened this afternoon.

GWENDOLEN - [To Jack - ] For my sake you are prepared to do this terrible thing?

JACK - I am.

CECILY - [To Algernon - ] To please me you are ready to face this fearful ordeal?

ALGERNON - I am!

GWENDOLEN - How absurd to talk of the equality of the sexes! Where questions of self-sacrifice are concerned, men are infinitely beyond us.

JACK - We are. [Clasps hands with Algernon - ]

CECILY - They have moments of physical courage of which we women know absolutely nothing.

GWENDOLEN - [To Jack - ] Darling!

ALGERNON - [To Cecily - ] Darling! [They fall into each other’s arms.]

[Enter Merriman -  When he enters he coughs loudly, seeing the situation.]

MERRIMAN - Ahem! Ahem! Lady Bracknell!

JACK - Good heavens!

[Enter LADY BRACKNELL -  The couples separate in alarm. Exit Merriman - ]

LADY BRACKNELL - Gwendolen! What does this mean?

GWENDOLEN - Merely that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Worthing, mamma.

LADY BRACKNELL - Come here. Sit down. Sit down immediately. Hesitation of any kind is a sign of mental decay in the young, of physical weakness in the old. [Turns to Jack - ] Apprised, sir, of my daughter’s sudden flight by her trusty maid, whose confidence I purchased by means of a small coin, I followed her at once by a luggage train. Her unhappy father is, I am glad to say, under the impression that she is attending a more than usually lengthy lecture by the University Extension Scheme on the Influence of a permanent income on Thought. I do not propose to undeceive him. Indeed I have never undeceived him on any question. I would consider it wrong. But of course, you will clearly understand that all communication between yourself and my daughter must cease immediately from this moment. On this point, as indeed on all points, I am firm.

JACK - I am engaged to be married to Gwendolen, Lady Bracknell!

LADY BRACKNELL - You are nothing of the kind, sir. And now, as regards Algernon! . . . Algernon!

ALGERNON - Yes, Aunt Augusta.

LADY BRACKNELL - May I ask if it is in this house that your invalid friend Mr. Bunbury resides?

ALGERNON - [Stammering.] Oh! No! Bunbury doesn’t live here. Bunbury is somewhere else at present. In fact, Bunbury is dead.

LADY BRACKNELL - Dead! When did Mr. Bunbury die? His death must have been extremely sudden.

ALGERNON - [Airily.] Oh! I killed Bunbury this afternoon. I mean poor Bunbury died this afternoon.

LADY BRACKNELL - What did he die of?

ALGERNON - Bunbury? Oh, he was quite exploded.

LADY BRACKNELL - Exploded! Was he the victim of a revolutionary outrage? I was not aware that Mr. Bunbury was interested in social legislation. If so, he is well punished for his morbidity.

ALGERNON - My dear Aunt Augusta, I mean he was found out! The doctors found out that Bunbury could not live, that is what I mean—so Bunbury died.

LADY BRACKNELL - He seems to have had great confidence in the opinion of his physicians. I am glad, however, that he made up his mind at the last to some definite course of action, and acted under proper medical advice. And now that we have finally got rid of this Mr. Bunbury, may I ask, Mr. Worthing, who is that young person whose hand my nephew Algernon is now holding in what seems to me a peculiarly unnecessary manner?

JACK - That lady is Miss Cecily Cardew, my ward. [Lady Bracknell bows coldly to Cecily - ]

ALGERNON - I am engaged to be married to Cecily, Aunt Augusta.

LADY BRACKNELL - I beg your pardon?

CECILY - Mr. Moncrieff and I are engaged to be married, Lady Bracknell -

LADY BRACKNELL - [With a shiver, crossing to the sofa and sitting down.] I do not know whether there is anything peculiarly exciting in the air of this particular part of Hertfordshire, but the number of engagements that go on seems to me considerably above the proper average that statistics have laid down for our guidance. I think some preliminary inquiry on my part would not be out of place. Mr. Worthing, is Miss Cardew at all connected with any of the larger railway stations in London? I merely desire information. Until yesterday I had no idea that there were any families or persons whose origin was a Terminus. [Jack looks perfectly furious, but restrains himself.]

JACK - [In a clear, cold voice.] Miss Cardew is the grand-daughter of the late Mr. Thomas Cardew of 149 Belgrave Square, S.W.; Gervase Park, Dorking, Surrey; and the Sporran, Fifeshire, N.B.

LADY BRACKNELL - That sounds not unsatisfactory. Three addresses always inspire confidence, even in tradesmen. But what proof have I of their authenticity?

JACK - I have carefully preserved the Court Guides of the period. They are open to your inspection, Lady Bracknell -

LADY BRACKNELL - [Grimly.] I have known strange errors in that publication.

JACK - Miss Cardew’s family solicitors are Messrs. Markby, Markby, and Markby.

LADY BRACKNELL - Markby, Markby, and Markby? A firm of the very highest position in their profession. Indeed I am told that one of the Mr. Markby’s is occasionally to be seen at dinner parties. So far I am satisfied.

JACK - [Very irritably.] How extremely kind of you, Lady Bracknell! I have also in my possession, you will be pleased to hear, certificates of Miss Cardew’s birth, baptism, whooping cough, registration, vaccination, confirmation, and the measles; both the German and the English variety.

LADY BRACKNELL - Ah! A life crowded with incident, I see; though perhaps somewhat too exciting for a young girl. I am not myself in favour of premature experiences. [Rises, looks at her watch.] Gwendolen! the time approaches for our departure. We have not a moment to lose. As a matter of form, Mr. Worthing, I had better ask you if Miss Cardew has any little fortune?

JACK - Oh! about a hundred and thirty thousand pounds in the Funds. That is all. Goodbye, Lady Bracknell -  So pleased to have seen you.

LADY BRACKNELL - [Sitting down again.] A moment, Mr. Worthing. A hundred and thirty thousand pounds! And in the Funds! Miss Cardew seems to me a most attractive young lady, now that I look at her. Few girls of the present day have any really solid qualities, any of the qualities that last, and improve with time. We live, I regret to say, in an age of surfaces. [To Cecily - ] Come over here, dear. [Cecily goes across.] Pretty child! your dress is sadly simple, and your hair seems almost as Nature might have left it. But we can soon alter all that. A thoroughly experienced French maid produces a really marvellous result in a very brief space of time. I remember recommending one to young Lady Lancing, and after three months her own husband did not know her.

JACK - And after six months nobody knew her.

LADY BRACKNELL - [Glares at Jack for a few moments. Then bends, with a practised smile, to Cecily - ] Kindly turn round, sweet child. [Cecily turns completely round.] No, the side view is what I want. [Cecily presents her profile.] Yes, quite as I expected. There are distinct social possibilities in your profile. The two weak points in our age are its want of principle and its want of profile. The chin a little higher, dear. Style largely depends on the way the chin is worn. They are worn very high, just at present. Algernon!

ALGERNON - Yes, Aunt Augusta!

LADY BRACKNELL - There are distinct social possibilities in Miss Cardew’s profile.

ALGERNON - Cecily is the sweetest, dearest, prettiest girl in the whole world. And I don’t care twopence about social possibilities.

LADY BRACKNELL - Never speak disrespectfully of Society, Algernon -  Only people who can’t get into it do that. [To Cecily - ] Dear child, of course you know that Algernon has nothing but his debts to depend upon. But I do not approve of mercenary marriages. When I married Lord Bracknell I had no fortune of any kind. But I never dreamed for a moment of allowing that to stand in my way. Well, I suppose I must give my consent.

ALGERNON - Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

LADY BRACKNELL - Cecily, you may kiss me!

CECILY - [Kisses her.] Thank you, Lady Bracknell -

LADY BRACKNELL - You may also address me as Aunt Augusta for the future.

CECILY - Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

LADY BRACKNELL - The marriage, I think, had better take place quite soon.

ALGERNON - Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

CECILY - Thank you, Aunt Augusta.

LADY BRACKNELL - To speak frankly, I am not in favour of long engagements. They give people the opportunity of finding out each other’s character before marriage, which I think is never advisable.

JACK - I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Lady Bracknell, but this engagement is quite out of the question. I am Miss Cardew’s guardian, and she cannot marry without my consent until she comes of age. That consent I absolutely decline to give.

LADY BRACKNELL - Upon what grounds may I ask? Algernon is an extremely, I may almost say an ostentatiously, eligible young man. He has nothing, but he looks everything. What more can one desire?

JACK - It pains me very much to have to speak frankly to you, Lady Bracknell, about your nephew, but the fact is that I do not approve at all of his moral character. I suspect him of being untruthful. [Algernon and Cecily look at him in indignant amazement.]

LADY BRACKNELL - Untruthful! My nephew Algernon? Impossible! He is an Oxonian.

JACK - I fear there can be no possible doubt about the matter. This afternoon during my temporary absence in London on an important question of romance, he obtained admission to my house by means of the false pretence of being my brother. Under an assumed name he drank, I’ve just been informed by my butler, an entire pint bottle of my Perrier-Jouet, Brut, ’89; wine I was specially reserving for myself. Continuing his disgraceful deception, he succeeded in the course of the afternoon in alienating the affections of my only ward. He subsequently stayed to tea, and devoured every single muffin. And what makes his conduct all the more heartless is, that he was perfectly well aware from the first that I have no brother, that I never had a brother, and that I don’t intend to have a brother, not even of any kind. I distinctly told him so myself yesterday afternoon.

LADY BRACKNELL - Ahem! Mr. Worthing, after careful consideration I have decided entirely to overlook my nephew’s conduct to you.

JACK - That is very generous of you, Lady Bracknell -  My own decision, however, is unalterable. I decline to give my consent.

LADY BRACKNELL - [To Cecily - ] Come here, sweet child. [Cecily goes over.] How old are you, dear?

CECILY - Well, I am really only eighteen, but I always admit to twenty when I go to evening parties.

LADY BRACKNELL - You are perfectly right in making some slight alteration. Indeed, no woman should ever be quite accurate about her age. It looks so calculating . . . [In a meditative manner.] Eighteen, but admitting to twenty at evening parties. Well, it will not be very long before you are of age and free from the restraints of tutelage. So I don’t think your guardian’s consent is, after all, a matter of any importance.

JACK - Pray excuse me, Lady Bracknell, for interrupting you again, but it is only fair to tell you that according to the terms of her grandfather’s will Miss Cardew does not come legally of age till she is thirty-five.

LADY BRACKNELL - That does not seem to me to be a grave objection. Thirty-five is a very attractive age. London society is full of women of the very highest birth who have, of their own free choice, remained thirty-five for years. Lady Dumbleton is an instance in point. To my own knowledge she has been thirty-five ever since she arrived at the age of forty, which was many years ago now. I see no reason why our dear Cecily should not be even still more attractive at the age you mention than she is at present. There will be a large accumulation of property.

CECILY - Algy, could you wait for me till I was thirty-five?

ALGERNON - Of course I could, Cecily -  You know I could.

CECILY - Yes, I felt it instinctively, but I couldn’t wait all that time. I hate waiting even five minutes for anybody. It always makes me rather cross. I am not punctual myself, I know, but I do like punctuality in others, and waiting, even to be married, is quite out of the question.

ALGERNON - Then what is to be done, Cecily?

CECILY - I don’t know, Mr. Moncrieff.

LADY BRACKNELL - My dear Mr. Worthing, as Miss Cardew states positively that she cannot wait till she is thirty-five—a remark which I am bound to say seems to me to show a somewhat impatient nature—I would beg of you to reconsider your decision.

JACK - But my dear Lady Bracknell, the matter is entirely in your own hands. The moment you consent to my marriage with Gwendolen, I will most gladly allow your nephew to form an alliance with my ward.

LADY BRACKNELL - [Rising and drawing herself up.] You must be quite aware that what you propose is out of the question.

JACK - Then a passionate celibacy is all that any of us can look forward to.

LADY BRACKNELL - That is not the destiny I propose for Gwendolen -  Algernon, of course, can choose for himself. [Pulls out her watch.] Come, dear, [Gwendolen rises] we have already missed five, if not six, trains. To miss any more might expose us to comment on the platform.

[Enter Dr. CHASUBLE - ]

CHASUBLE - Everything is quite ready for the christenings.

LADY BRACKNELL - The christenings, sir! Is not that somewhat premature?

CHASUBLE - [Looking rather puzzled, and pointing to Jack and Algernon - ] Both these gentlemen have expressed a desire for immediate baptism.

LADY BRACKNELL - At their age? The idea is grotesque and irreligious! Algernon, I forbid you to be baptized. I will not hear of such excesses. Lord Bracknell would be highly displeased if he learned that that was the way in which you wasted your time and money.

CHASUBLE - Am I to understand then that there are to be no christenings at all this afternoon?

JACK - I don’t think that, as things are now, it would be of much practical value to either of us, Dr. Chasuble -

CHASUBLE - I am grieved to hear such sentiments from you, Mr. Worthing. They savour of the heretical views of the Anabaptists, views that I have completely refuted in four of my unpublished sermons. However, as your present mood seems to be one peculiarly secular, I will return to the church at once. Indeed, I have just been informed by the pew-opener that for the last hour and a half Miss Prism has been waiting for me in the vestry.

LADY BRACKNELL - [Starting.] Miss Prism! Did I hear you mention a Miss Prism?

CHASUBLE - Yes, Lady Bracknell -  I am on my way to join her.

LADY BRACKNELL - Pray allow me to detain you for a moment. This matter may prove to be one of vital importance to Lord Bracknell and myself. Is this Miss Prism a female of repellent aspect, remotely connected with education?

CHASUBLE - [Somewhat indignantly.] She is the most cultivated of ladies, and the very picture of respectability.

LADY BRACKNELL - It is obviously the same person. May I ask what position she holds in your household?

CHASUBLE - [Severely.] I am a celibate, madam.

JACK - [Interposing.] Miss Prism, Lady Bracknell, has been for the last three years Miss Cardew’s esteemed governess and valued companion.

LADY BRACKNELL - In spite of what I hear of her, I must see her at once. Let her be sent for.

CHASUBLE - [Looking off.] She approaches; she is nigh.

[Enter Miss Prism hurriedly.]

MISS PRISM - I was told you expected me in the vestry, dear Canon. I have been waiting for you there for an hour and three-quarters. [Catches sight of Lady Bracknell, who has fixed her with a stony glare. Miss Prism grows pale and quails. She looks anxiously round as if desirous to escape.]

LADY BRACKNELL - [In a severe, judicial voice.] Prism! [Miss Prism bows her head in shame.] Come here, Prism! [Miss Prism approaches in a humble manner.] Prism! Where is that baby? [General consternation. The Canon starts back in horror. Algernon and Jack pretend to be anxious to shield Cecily and Gwendolen from hearing the details of a terrible public scandal.] Twenty-eight years ago, Prism, you left Lord Bracknell’s house, Number 104, Upper Grosvenor Street, in charge of a perambulator that contained a baby of the male sex. You never returned. A few weeks later, through the elaborate investigations of the Metropolitan police, the perambulator was discovered at midnight, standing by itself in a remote corner of Bayswater. It contained the manuscript of a three-volume novel of more than usually revolting sentimentality. [Miss Prism starts in involuntary indignation.] But the baby was not there! [Every one looks at Miss Prism - ] Prism! Where is that baby? [A pause.]

MISS PRISM - Lady Bracknell, I admit with shame that I do not know. I only wish I did. The plain facts of the case are these. On the morning of the day you mention, a day that is for ever branded on my memory, I prepared as usual to take the baby out in its perambulator. I had also with me a somewhat old, but capacious hand-bag in which I had intended to place the manuscript of a work of fiction that I had written during my few unoccupied hours. In a moment of mental abstraction, for which I never can forgive myself, I deposited the manuscript in the basinette, and placed the baby in the hand-bag.

JACK - [Who has been listening attentively.] But where did you deposit the hand-bag?

MISS PRISM - Do not ask me, Mr. Worthing.

JACK - Miss Prism, this is a matter of no small importance to me. I insist on knowing where you deposited the hand-bag that contained that infant.

MISS PRISM - I left it in the cloak-room of one of the larger railway stations in London.

JACK - What railway station?

MISS PRISM - [Quite crushed.] Victoria. The Brighton line. [Sinks into a chair.]

JACK - I must retire to my room for a moment. Gwendolen, wait here for me.

GWENDOLEN - If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life. [Exit Jack in great excitement.]

CHASUBLE - What do you think this means, Lady Bracknell?

LADY BRACKNELL - I dare not even suspect, Dr. Chasuble - I need hardly tell you that in families of high position strange coincidences are not supposed to occur. They are hardly considered the thing.

[Noises heard overhead as if some one was throwing trunks about. Every one looks up.]

CECILY - Uncle Jack seems strangely agitated.

CHASUBLE - Your guardian has a very emotional nature.

LADY BRACKNELL - This noise is extremely unpleasant. It sounds as if he was having an argument. I dislike arguments of any kind. They are always vulgar, and often convincing.

CHASUBLE - [Looking up.] It has stopped now. [The noise is redoubled.]

LADY BRACKNELL - I wish he would arrive at some conclusion.

GWENDOLEN - This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last. [Enter Jack with a hand-bag of black leather in his hand.]

JACK - [Rushing over to Miss Prism - ] Is this the hand-bag, Miss Prism? Examine it carefully before you speak. The happiness of more than one life depends on your answer.

MISS PRISM - [Calmly.] It seems to be mine. Yes, here is the injury it received through the upsetting of a Gower Street omnibus in younger and happier days. Here is the stain on the lining caused by the explosion of a temperance beverage, an incident that occurred at Leamington. And here, on the lock, are my initials. I had forgotten that in an extravagant mood I had had them placed there. The bag is undoubtedly mine. I am delighted to have it so unexpectedly restored to me. It has been a great inconvenience being without it all these years.

JACK - [In a pathetic voice.] Miss Prism, more is restored to you than this hand-bag. I was the baby you placed in it.

MISS PRISM - [Amazed.] You?

JACK - [Embracing her.] Yes . . . mother!

MISS PRISM - [Recoiling in indignant astonishment.] Mr. Worthing! I am unmarried!

JACK - Unmarried! I do not deny that is a serious blow. But after all, who has the right to cast a stone against one who has suffered? Cannot repentance wipe out an act of folly? Why should there be one law for men, and another for women? Mother, I forgive you. [Tries to embrace her again.]

MISS PRISM - [Still more indignant.] Mr. Worthing, there is some error. [Pointing to Lady Bracknell - ] There is the lady who can tell you who you really are.

JACK - [After a pause.] Lady Bracknell, I hate to seem inquisitive, but would you kindly inform me who I am?

LADY BRACKNELL - I am afraid that the news I have to give you will not altogether please you. You are the son of my poor sister, Mrs. Moncrieff, and consequently Algernon’s elder brother.

JACK - Algy’s elder brother! Then I have a brother after all. I knew I had a brother! I always said I had a brother! Cecily,—how could you have ever doubted that I had a brother? [Seizes hold of Algernon - ] Dr. Chasuble, my unfortunate brother. Miss Prism, my unfortunate brother. Gwendolen, my unfortunate brother. Algy, you young scoundrel, you will have to treat me with more respect in the future. You have never behaved to me like a brother in all your life.

ALGERNON - Well, not till to-day, old boy, I admit. I did my best, however, though I was out of practice.

[Shakes hands.]

GWENDOLEN - [To Jack - ] My own! But what own are you? What is your Christian name, now that you have become some one else?

JACK - Good heavens! . . . I had quite forgotten that point. Your decision on the subject of my name is irrevocable, I suppose?

GWENDOLEN - I never change, except in my affections.

CECILY - What a noble nature you have, Gwendolen!

JACK - Then the question had better be cleared up at once. Aunt Augusta, a moment. At the time when Miss Prism left me in the hand-bag, had I been christened already?

LADY BRACKNELL - Every luxury that money could buy, including christening, had been lavished on you by your fond and doting parents.

JACK - Then I was christened! That is settled. Now, what name was I given? Let me know the worst.

LADY BRACKNELL - Being the eldest son you were naturally christened after your father.

JACK - [Irritably.] Yes, but what was my father’s Christian name?

LADY BRACKNELL - [Meditatively.] I cannot at the present moment recall what the General’s Christian name was. But I have no doubt he had one. He was eccentric, I admit. But only in later years. And that was the result of the Indian climate, and marriage, and indigestion, and other things of that kind.

JACK - Algy! Can’t you recollect what our father’s Christian name was?

ALGERNON - My dear boy, we were never even on speaking terms. He died before I was a year old.

JACK - His name would appear in the Army Lists of the period, I suppose, Aunt Augusta?

LADY BRACKNELL - The General was essentially a man of peace, except in his domestic life. But I have no doubt his name would appear in any military directory.

JACK - The Army Lists of the last forty years are here. These delightful records should have been my constant study. [Rushes to bookcase and tears the books out.] M. Generals . . . Mallam, Maxbohm, Magley, what ghastly names they have—Markby, Migsby, Mobbs, Moncrieff! Lieutenant 1840, Captain, Lieutenant-Colonel, Colonel, General 1869, Christian names, Ernest John. [Puts book very quietly down and speaks quite calmly.] I always told you, Gwendolen, my name was Ernest, didn’t I? Well, it is Ernest after all. I mean it naturally is Ernest.

LADY BRACKNELL - Yes, I remember now that the General was called Ernest, I knew I had some particular reason for disliking the name.

GWENDOLEN - Ernest! My own Ernest! I felt from the first that you could have no other name!

JACK - Gwendolen, it is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth. Can you forgive me?

GWENDOLEN - I can. For I feel that you are sure to change.

JACK - My own one!

CHASUBLE - [To Miss Prism - ] Lætitia! [Embraces her]

MISS PRISM - [Enthusiastically.] Frederick! At last!

ALGERNON - Cecily! [Embraces her.] At last!

JACK - Gwendolen! [Embraces her.] At last!

LADY BRACKNELL - My nephew, you seem to be displaying signs of triviality.

JACK - On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, I’ve now realised for the first time in my life the vital Importance of Being Earnest.

 

TABLEAU

Prayer of Saint Sophronius of Jerusalem to his Guardian Angel (translated into Portuguese)

      É a vossa benignidade que rogo e imploro, ó bons e imaculados Anjos e Arcanjos! A vosso poder recorro, ó intemeratos espíritos! Obtende-me que pura seja a minha vida; inabalável, a minha esperança; ilibados, os meus costumes; perfeito e livre de toda ofensa, o meu amor para com Deus e para com o próximo. Ah! tomai-me pela mão, conduzi-me, guiai-me por aqueles caminhos que são aceitos por Deus e salutares para mim.

Tuesday's Serial: “The Messiah of the Cylinder” by Victor Rousseau (in Englsih) - IX

CHAPTER XIII - THE PALACE OF PALMS

The sun dipped behind the western buildings, and the glare of the glow on fort and Temple and encircling wall was like phosphorescent fire. I saw the guards stirring in their enclosure. The Airscouts’ Fortress shone, hard and brilliant, against the sky.

I gathered my wits together. I had seen the hidden things, and, because I knew of none other to whom to turn, I resolved to appeal to David. Esther, the prey of these insane degenerates when she awakened ... David’s own secret troubles ... could we not aid each other? Might not two men accomplish something in these evil days?

I turned to the right across the bridge that led to the Airscouts’ Fortress. The sentinel stood still, watching me. He raised his Ray rod, not to threaten me, but to salute, and I remembered that the airscouts had no love for the Guard, and hence must be under Lembken’s control. He took me for a priest. But the weapon shook in his hand, and the astonishment upon his face matched that on mine. I recognized the man Jones, who had brought me to London.

“I want to leave this hell!” I cried. “Which way? Which way?”

“You want—you want—?” he stammered.

“The Strangers’ House. I am lost here—”

He looked at me in utter perplexity.

“Help me!” I pleaded. “Show me the way!”

The door behind him opened, and there stepped out a man of about fifty years, dressed in white, with a golden swan on each shoulder. Jones stepped aside and saluted him. The newcomer approached me. His hard, clean-shaven face was impenetrable, and his eyes burned with a dull fire. Behind him crept a second figure; it was the old priest.

“There he is! Seize him!” he shrieked.

The first man laid his hand on my shoulder. “I am Air-Admiral Hancock,” he said. “You are to accompany me to Boss Lembken.”

I went with him across the bridge into a doorway set in the west side of the Temple building. I expected again to see the vast interior beneath me, but we entered a narrow corridor and stepped into a small automatic elevator. In a moment we had shot up and halted inside the Palace entrance. Hancock opened the door of the cage.

We were standing in a spacious hall, bare, save for the hanging tapestries and heavy Persian rugs on the mosaic floor. It was half dark, and there was a perfume that made my head swim. Before the curtained aperture opposite us stood a negro boy, with a Ray rod in his hand. As we approached he threw the curtain aside and saluted us.

There were soft solar lights in the next room, which was rose-red, and decorated and furnished in the style of Louis Quatorze. Another negro stood in the doorway opposite; he, too, saluted and threw the curtain back.

The third room was enameled in blue. The blue lights gave it an unearthly aspect, which was increased by the baroque style of its ornamentation. The perfume was stronger.

The negro at the door of the fourth room was a giant. He wore the uniform of an eighteenth century grenadier. His scarlet coat and white pigtail formed vivid spots against the dull-gold curtain. The room within was dark. We waited on the threshold.

At first I could see nothing. Then, gradually, the outlines of the room came into sight. There were low divans and rugs, and mirrors on every wall multiplied them. I heard a rasping sound, and a blotch of crimson and green became a brilliant macaw that scraped its way with its sharp claws from end to end of a horizontal perch. Behind it I now saw the white gleam of Lembken’s robe; then the couch on which he lay; then the girl who crouched, fanning him, at his feet; then the rotund form of the old man, the sharp eyes and the heavy jowl with the pendulous cheeks.

“I have executed your orders, Boss,” said the Air-Admiral.

The old man rose upon his feet heavily and came puffing up to us. His heavy soft hands wandered about my robes, patting me here and there, while he puffed and snorted like some sea monster.

“You haven’t a knife or a Ray rod?” he inquired suspiciously. “You haven’t anything to harm me? I am an old, weak man. I am the people’s friend, and yet many want to kill me.”

He seemed to satisfy himself with the result of his inspection, and withdrew to his couch, picking up a Ray rod and resting it across his knee.

He dismissed Hancock and the girl. She rose to her feet briskly, with a mechanical smile. She was about twenty years old, it seemed to me, but there was a hardness and cruelty about her mouth that shocked me, and the soul behind the mask of youth seemed centuries old.

“Amaranth wanted to stay, to hear what I was going to say to you,” said Lembken, “but I make everybody mind his own business in the People’s House. Besides, she might have fallen in love with you. I like to have good-looking people about me.” He looked at me and at the Ray rod, and then at me again; then, with a petulant gesture, he sent the weapon flying across the room.

“There! You see I trust you!” he said, smiling. “Sit down beside me. We understand each other, so we will be frank. Men such as we are above deceptions. You ought to be about a hundred and twenty-eight years old!”

He spoke jocularly, and yet I could see that he wished to be sure I was the man he sought. Evidently he knew my history. He heaved a sigh of immense satisfaction when I acquiesced.

“I was not sure it was you,” he said. “One has to be cautious when so much depends on it. And Sanson was beginning to suspect, but he does not know that I discovered Lazaroff’s papers. Sanson does not know everything, you see, Arnold. What do you think of his Rest Cure, as the people term it? It is his, not mine, you know.”

“I think he is Satan himself,” I answered quickly. Yet I was not sure that I preferred this perfumed degenerate to Sanson, with his maniac cruelty.

A smile crept over the flabby face. Lembken looked pleased. He placed his hand upon my shoulder.

“A classical scholar,” he said. “You refer to the mythical ruler of the infernal realms. Assuredly we shall soon understand each other. Sanson is a strong man. When I meet strong men I let them be as strong as they want to be. They break themselves to pieces. In a democracy like ours there is no room for strong men. Sanson doesn’t understand that. He thinks the Mayor of the Palace is going to step into the shoes of the Roi Fainéant. But the Roi Fainéant always wins—if he sits still. I am the Roi Fainéant.”

I was so amazed at the strange psychology he was disclosing that I found no answer ready. I knew he was dissembling some deep-laid purpose, but why he had need of me I could not imagine. And the man’s affectation of good-will almost began to delude me.

“Do you like David’s daughter?” he began, so suddenly that I started. “Ah!” he continued, shaking his finger waggishly, “one seldom sees a woman approximating so closely to the Sanson norm. There is an attachment, if I know young men. How would you like her for your own? I hit the mark, then?”

Before I could reply he was on another tack.

“Now, there is Hancock,” he resumed. “He is a Christian, and ought to go to the defectives’ shops, according to the law Sanson made. But I don’t care. I would just as soon have Christianity as the Ant, or Mormonism, as they have in America. I don’t like tyranny. If I had my way everyone would be perfectly free. Sanson doesn’t see that he has embittered the people. He is harrying them with his laws, and they blame me. I am the people’s friend.”

With a sudden, hoarse scream the macaw flew from the bar and perched on Lembken’s shoulder, where she sat, preening her plumage and croaking at me. “The people’s friend,” she screamed, and broke into choking laughter.

“So you see it is entirely to your interest to help me and not Sanson,” Lembken continued. “Reasonable men cement their friendships with self-interest. Come, let me look at you.”

He touched some switch near him, and the room was illuminated with a blaze of solar light. The golden ants upon his robes leaped into view. He turned on the divan heavily and stared into my face.

“Yes, I can trust you,” he said in approbation. “Well, Sanson will learn his error in four days’ time. You shall live here with me and have a life of pleasure. You need never think about the world below. We do exactly what we please; that is my rule in the People’s House.”

“The People’s House!” screamed the macaw, leaving his shoulder and fluttering back to her perch, from which she surveyed us coldly, head on one side. “The People’s House! The people’s friend!” she alternated, in a muttering diminuendo.

“My head aches today,” said Lembken petulantly. “That is why I am sitting here. There has been an accident: one of our ladies fell down through an open door. It made my head ache.”

I knew he lied when he spoke of an accident. I knew that she had thrown herself down. The lie brought back my mind to its focus; and in that instant my lips were sealed, and my half-formed intent to throw myself on Lembken’s mercy, pleading for Esther and our love, died.

“So we shall talk tomorrow,” Lembken continued. “For the present you are one of us. You see your interest lies in joining us, and the part you have to play in return will be short and not difficult for a man of your discernment. That small part will be paid, four days hence—”

I was sure that it concerned Esther now. “And will be all, and afterward your life will be free from all laws and bonds. You never need leave the People’s House unless you want to. Here everyone does as he pleases. Come, Arnold, I will show you the gardens.”

He stood up, puffing, and gave me his arm like an old friend. The man’s manners were fascinating. I could well understand how he had worked his way to power. There was the good-fellowship of the twentieth-century demagogue, but there was more; there was discernment and culture; and there was more still; there was a corrupting influence about his candor that seemed to strike its deadly roots down into my moral nature and shrivel it.

We passed out through the empty rooms. The Palace was level with the Temple roof; there were no steps. There was no stairway at all, for the whole structure, which seemed to extend from side to side of the vast roof, consisted of a single story. We passed out between two giant negroes, who stood like ebony statues. And now I saw that the four rooms in which I had been, comprised only the smallest portion of the building, which was set out irregularly, receding here to leave space for a little lawn, projecting there, evidently to enclose a garden. And I discovered why the interior was so dark; there were no windows—at least, on this side of the Palace.

It was a fairyland. I thought of the old palaces at Capri. Here, high above the swarming streets, a man might take his pleasure in ease indeed. The crystal walls must have been sound-proof, for not a murmur from below reached us. I heard the music of bubbling brooks, the cries of birds among the trees, the faint tinkle of a guitar or mandolin struck somewhere in the recesses of the ramified buildings.

We were traversing a graveled path that ran between the Palace and the crystal wall. Looking down, I could see the glow circle of the fortress. It had grown dark; the lights which lit our way, that I had thought daylight, were from the solar vents, concealed so skilfully that they shed a soft, diffused radiance everywhere, as of afternoon. We turned the angle of the building, and I stopped short and looked in involuntary admiration at the scene before me.

We might have stepped into the heart of some Amazonian forest, for we were in a tangled wilderness of palms and other tropical trees. The air was filled with the scent of orange flowers, and in a grove near me clusters of the bright fruit hung from the weighted boughs. From the dank earth sprang clusters of exotic, flaming flowers, and ferns. Huge vines knotted themselves about the trunks of trees, through whose recesses flew flocks of brilliantly plumaged birds. The path became a trail, meandering between the trees and crossing rushing brooklets. The vast concavity of the dome above was like an arched heaven of blue, studded with golden stars.

“What do you think of the People’s House, Arnold?” Lembken inquired, turning heavily upon me.

“It is a paradise,” I answered.

I was amazed to see two tears roll down his cheeks. It was the same strange yielding to emotional impulse that I had discerned before. So might Nero have wept over his fiddle.

“It is the reward of those who are the chosen of the people,” he answered. “It will be your reward, Arnold. You must dream over this tonight, and tomorrow we will make our compact. I have reserved quarters for you. You will meet nobody you do not wish to meet. That is the chief charm of the People’s House; we meet only for our festivities; otherwise we are quite free. Come, Arnold!”

The scene, the atmosphere, the fearful personality of Lembken seemed to appeal to some being in me whose hideous presence I had never suspected. A deadly inertia of the spirit was conquering me. Esther, my love of a hundred years, became in memory elusive as a dream to me. The sensuous appeal of this wonderland swept over me.

We had threaded the recesses of the groves, passing secluded arbors of twisted vines, pergolas and rustic cottages about which clung the scarlet trumpets of pomegranate flowers; now the crystal walls came into sight again, and, as we approached, a gust of wind blew the door open. Instantly, to divert my senses from that soul-destroying dominance, there rushed in, the murmurs of the city, the voices of the multitude below, and, above all, clear and distinct, the wild accents of the whitebeard, who had denounced the pleasure-palace that afternoon.

“Woe to you, London, when your whitecoats sit with their harlots in the high places! Woe! Woe!”

I could not see him; through the door I saw only the circle of the enclosing walls, a luminous orb beneath, and the glare of the huge Ray guns; beyond were the mighty buildings. Lembken put out his hand and closed the door. The voices were cut off into silence. I glanced at him, but his brow was untroubled and serene.

He led me across a little, shelving lawn, through a small gateway. There was nobody in the tiny close, surrounded by a high marble wall. There were no windows in the little house before me. It might have held two rooms.

“Three rooms,” said Lembken, as if he had read my thoughts. “Good night, Arnold. Remember, we do what we like to do in the People’s House. There are no laws, no bonds. Dream of this paradise that shall be yours, and open the third door softly.”

He left me. I pushed the first door open and entered.

It was a bedroom, furnished in the conventional style which had not changed appreciably during the century, but all in ebony or teak, and luxurious almost beyond conception. The floor was covered with a thick-piled Bokhara rug, of red and ivory, and exquisite texture.

I passed through the inevitable swing door. The second room was fitted as a combination library and dining-room. There was an ebony bookcase, filled with magnificently bound books, a sideboard on which stood wines and distilled liquors, a heavy dining-table, armchairs.

This room had a window, and, looking out, I was surprised to see beneath me the bridge that led to the Airscouts’ Fortress, and, at the end of it, a figure in blue, the white swan on his breast brilliant in the glare of the solar light over his head.

I passed on. But instead of the swing door the further wall contained a door of heavy, iron-bound wood, with bolts of steel. Then I remembered Lembken’s words: “Open the third door softly.”

The bolts moved in their sockets with hardly a sound. I drew them; I opened the door and passed into a tiny chamber.

A girl in white, with the palm badge upon her shoulder, was standing there. The room had been dark; the sudden influx of the solar light from the library showed me the pallid face and blazing eyes of her whom I had least thought to see before me—Elizabeth!

 

CHAPTER XIV - THE HOUSE ON THE WALL

She stared at me with eyes that seemed to see nothing; and then a look of recognition came into them, and a twitching smile upon her lips. She put her arms out and came unsteadily toward me. She threw her right arm back. I caught her hand as it swung downward, and the dagger’s razor edge grazed my shoulder.

The next moment she was fighting like a trapped panther. I could not have imagined that such strength and fierceness existed in any woman. She twisted her wrists out of my grasp time and again, and we wrestled for the dagger till the blood from my slashed fingers fouled my priest’s robe. Each of the stabbing blows she dealt so wildly would have driven the dagger in to the hilt.

I grappled with her, caught her right arm at last, and forced it upward, but we swayed to and fro for nearly a minute before I mastered her. Even then she had one last surprise in store, for, when she saw that she was beaten, she drew her dagger hand quickly backward, and I seized the point of the blade within an inch of her breast. I forced her fingers open brutally, and the steel fell to the floor. Then she wrested herself away, and crouched in the corner, watching me, motionless, but still ready to leap. Her gasping breaths were the only sound in the room.

“Elizabeth!” I cried. “I am not here to harm you. Look at me; listen to me!”

Her eyes were fixed on my face in terror that precluded speech. How she watched me! Only once did her glance waver, and that was toward the dagger on the floor. I kicked it backward with my heel.

“Elizabeth, listen to me!” I implored her. “I did not know that you were here, and I do not know how you came here. I want to help you. I want to take you home to David!”

“Ah!” she said, shuddering. “This is what you whites call a romance in the style of the first century B.C., a fashionable pastime, to dress yourselves as blues or grays and worm your way into the homes of your prospective victims, in order to study them, and see whether they suit your taste and are worth adding to your collection. I have read of that in the Council factory novels. But there was never any romance in it to me. So I appeared to suit you, after my father had taken you into his home so trustingly? You deceived him; but you never deceived me.”

I saw her glance turn to the dagger again.

“Elizabeth, you are talking nonsense,” I said, with an affectation of brusqueness. “Let us sit down in the next room, and I propose a compact. You shall take the dagger, provided you do not attempt to harm yourself with it till you have heard me. Is that agreed?”

She scrutinized me for half a minute. Then she nodded. I preceded her into the library with an affectation of indifference which I was far from feeling, for I heard her stoop to pick the dagger up, and wondered each instant whether I was about to feel the point between my shoulders. However, my faith appeared to inspire her with a measure of confidence, for she followed me into the middle room and consented to sit down.

But when I faced her, toying with the blade and all aquiver with the reaction from the terrific nerve-tension, I could hardly find words to utter. Whatever purpose Lembken might have in using me, I had the full measure of his mind. He had thought that my three weeks spent in David’s house had inspired me with a passion for the girl; and he had brought her here, to leave her helpless in my power, a lure to bind me to his interests beyond the possibility of double-dealing.

Before I could begin, Elizabeth collapsed. She began to weep without restraint. I could only wait till she grew more composed. I stared out through the window, looking down toward the Airscouts’ Fortress, whose roof rose perhaps twenty feet beneath me.

I saw the sentry with the swan badge, pacing below. Above him was the luminous wall of the fortress, and over it, floating in the air, was a host of ghostly shapes, airplanes encased in their phosphorescent glow armor, which, as I watched them, rose one by one into the air, circled, and flitted noiselessly away toward the south, like bubbles blown by children.

It could not have been late, for curfew had not come into operation, and London was ablaze with the solar light; but the crowds had gone home and everything was quite still. As I withdrew from the window Elizabeth rose and came timidly toward me.

“Arnold, have I done you a wrong?” she whispered.

“You misunderstood me,” I answered. “But you could not have thought otherwise. If we understand each other now we can help each other—isn’t that so?”

She seized me by both arms and gazed into my face with an imploring, pitiful appeal that wrung my heart.

“Then I thank God,” she said, “for that impulse which held me from self-destruction. Arnold, do you remember that promise I made to you one day? I remembered it; I remembered it, and it was that alone which stayed my hand this afternoon, when the emissary from Lembken came, and there was only the one barred door between us, and I stood behind it, with the knife at my breast. Then I resolved to keep my promise to you, and to let them bring me here, and—to kill Lembken—but it was you! When you disappeared from the Strangers’ House this morning we feared for your safety. We thought you had been seized or lured away. Then my father was summoned on some pretext back to the Strangers’ Bureau, and the airscout came—Lembken’s man. I thought I was for Lembken—”

She broke off, and I took her hands in mine.

“Elizabeth,” I said, “my dear, I do not understand anything of what you tell me. How could they bring you here against your will?”

She looked at me in amazement.

“No, I see you do not understand,” she answered. “And yet you are dressed as a priest. I cannot tell you now. But the airscout who had been sent for me was sorry when he saw that I was not willing, like most women. He took the knife from me, but afterward he let me keep it; he was kind and promised to carry the news to Jones, our friend. The airscouts are disloyal to Lembken, and hate his cruelty, but he dared not disobey. We went by scoutplane from the roof, and Lembken’s women took me and clothed me in this dress of palms, and carried me here, laughing at me. They did not find the knife. I hid that; I meant to serve the Province and the world by killing Lembken. But then I saw you, Arnold, and—and—”

She burst into a new storm of weeping. I drew her to me and placed her head on my shoulder. I felt a cold, burning fire of resolution in my heart which never disappeared. Something, some spiritual door was opened in me. I became part of the wretchedness of the world and suffered its sorrows; pleasure seemed the worst part of life then. I think, too, I loved Esther the better because of that compassion.

When at last Elizabeth raised her head I was struck by the transformation in her appearance. It seemed the reflection of my own determination. I had put forth my will and conquered, and her own seemed one with mine.

“I am going to save you, Elizabeth,” I said. “You are not destined for this earthly hell.”

“Arnold, are you yourself in danger here?” she asked.

“Only of hell-fire,” I answered.

“You must save yourself and not think of me,” she said.

I bade her sit down, and went back to the entrance of the little house. I had half expected that the door would have been locked, but it stood open, having become unhasped, and the sickly odor of the pervading perfume clung to the warm, stale air. I crossed the close to the gate that led into the garden of palms, and stood there in hesitation.

The solar lights had been turned off, and all was dark, except for varicolored lanterns twinkling among the trees. Yet I was aware of souls peopling that darkness. I heard the tinkle of stringed instruments; I had the sense of hidden beings in the undergrowth. If hell can wear the mask of beauty, surely it did that night.

I crossed the lawn and began to skirt the graveled path that extended before me, working my way toward the front of the Palace. The squat, white building glittered against the darkness. Nobody stirred at the entrance; there were no lights, but always I had the sense of something watching me.

At last I saw the crystal walls on the west side, and, beyond them, the phosphorescence of the glow buildings. I stood in hesitancy. On my right stood the thickets; on my left the crystal ended in a stone wall. There was no egress except through the Palace itself. Lembken left nothing to surprise.

As I turned I heard the rustle of stealthy footsteps near me. A red spark drew my eyes along the vista of the orange trees, whose perfumed flowers dispelled the cloying odor of the scented night. I saw a Mænad’s face, framed in a leopard skin, peering at me above a bank of hibiscus. I thought I recognized the girl Amaranth; but it vanished with the dying of the spark, and subdued laughter followed it.

All that was evil in the world seemed to have its focus there. I felt it, breathed it, once more its psychic dominance oppressed me heavily. I saw with sudden intuition why, in a world less stable, witches were burned, how passionately the souls of simple men fought for their heritage of truth and law. This was the negation of life, of all that struggling life that aspired upward, and set its heel upon the serpent’s head. Old myths, made real in this new light, flashed into memory.

I hurried back to the close and fastened the gate behind me. The sweat was dripping from my forehead when I regained the safety of the little house. I burst from the first room into the second.

Elizabeth was not there.

I ran into the third room. She was not there, either. Terror gripped me. Had she been lured away during the few minutes of my absence? It seemed impossible. She would have died there.

Then my eyes fell on something that hung outside the window, dangling, as it seemed, from a fixed point above. It was a rope ladder, and moving outward. As I watched, I saw it begin to rise in a succession of short jerks.

I grasped it with my hands. It pulled me from the floor. I clung to it, striving to get my feet upon the rungs. It drew me to the level of the window, but I would not let go. It pulled me through the window-gap, and I swung far out above the Airscouts’ Fortress. Over me I saw the dark outlines of an unshielded scoutplane, high in the air.

I swung by my hands at the rope’s end, like the weight of a pendulum, making great transverse sweeps that carried me high above the bridge, from end to end of the fortress roof. I saw the courts revolve beneath me. I swept from the crystal wall out into nothingness, and London was a reeling dance of phosphorescent maze. Then the ladder began to descend. I felt the roof of the fortress touch my feet, wrenched my numbed hands away, and fell. A moment later the airplane dropped beside me as noiselessly as an alighting bird, and two men sprang from it and seized me.

One was the airscout Jones. He caught me by both arms and forced me backward. But the other leaped at my throat. It was David; and he would have strangled me, had not Jones pulled him away.

Then, to my vast relief, Elizabeth ran forward, interposing herself between us. “Arnold is not to blame!” she cried. “He tried to save me!”

It pulled me through the window-gap, and I swung far out above the Airscouts’ Fortress

David’s hands fell to his sides. The airscout caught me by the arms and pulled me toward an elevator entrance. He forced me into the cage, the others following, and we descended a few feet, emerging into a small, bare room with walls of unsquared stone.

Jones sent the elevator up and pulled the door of the shaft to.

“Now you can speak. You have five minutes to explain yourself,” he said. He pulled a Ray rod from his tunic and looked at David, who nodded.

Monday's Illustrated Word: "Terror in the Night" by unknown writer (in English)

 art by Warren Kremer - The Saint #4 - Avon,1948.

 

 

Saturday's Good Reading: "Rapunzel" by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm (translated into English by D.L. Ashiiman)

First edition, 1812

Once upon a time there was a man and a woman who had long wished for a child but had never received one.

Finally, however, the woman came to be with child.

Through the small rear window of these people's house they could see into a fairy's garden that was filled with flowers and herbs of all kinds.

No one dared enter this garden.

One day the woman was standing at this window, and she saw the most beautiful rapunzel in a bed.

She longed for some, but not knowing how to get any, she became miserably ill.

Her husband was frightened, and asked her why she was doing so poorly.

"Oh, if I do not get some rapunzel from the garden behind our house, I shall surely die," she said.

The man, who loved her dearly, decided to get her some, whatever the cost.

One evening he climbed over the high wall, hastily dug up a handful of rapunzel, and took it to his wife.

She immediately made a salad from it, which she devoured greedily.

It tasted so very good to her that by the next day her desire for more had grown threefold.

The man saw that there would be no peace, so once again he climbed into the garden.

To his horror, the fairy was standing there.

She scolded him fiercely for daring to enter and steal from her garden.

He excused himself as best he could with his wife's pregnancy, and how it would be dangerous to deny her anything.

Finally the fairy spoke, "I will accept your excuse and even allow you to take as much rapunzel as you want, if you will give me the child that your wife is now carrying."

In his fear the man agreed to everything.

When the woman gave birth, the fairy appeared, named the little girl Rapunzel, and took her away.

This Rapunzel became the most beautiful child under the sun, but when she was twelve years old, the fairy locked her in a high tower that had neither a door nor a stairway, but only a tiny little window at the very top.

When the fairy wanted to enter, she stood below and called out:

 

    Rapunzel, Rapunzel!

    Let down your hair to me.

 

Rapunzel had splendid hair, as fine as spun gold.

When the fairy called out, she untied it, wound it around a window hook, let it fall twenty yards to the ground, and the fairy climbed up it.

One day a young prince came through the forest where the tower stood.

He saw the beautiful Rapunzel standing at her window, heard her sing with her sweet voice, and fell in love with her.

Because there was no door in the tower and no ladder was tall enough to reach her, he fell into despair.

He came to the forest every day, until once he saw the fairy, who said:

 

    Rapunzel, Rapunzel!

    Let down your hair.

 

Then Rapunzel let down her strands of hair, and the sorceress climbed up them to her.

"If that is the ladder into the tower, then sometime I will try my luck."

He remembered the words that he would have to speak, and the next day, as soon as it was dark, he went to the tower and called upward:

 

    Rapunzel, Rapunzel!

    Let down your hair!

 

She let her hair fall. He tied himself to it and was pulled up.

At first Rapunzel was frightened, but soon she came to like the young king so well that she arranged for him to come every day and be pulled up. Thus they lived in joy and pleasure for a long time.

The fairy did not discover what was happening until one day Rapunzel said to her, "Frau Gothel, tell me why it is that my clothes are all too tight. They no longer fit me."

"You godless child," said the fairy. "What am I hearing from you?" She immediately saw how she had been deceived and was terribly angry.

She took Rapunzel's beautiful hair, wrapped it a few times around her left hand, grasped a pair of scissors with her right hand, and snip snip, cut it off.

Then she sent Rapunzel into a wilderness where she suffered greatly and where, after a time, she gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl.

On the evening of the same day that she sent Rapunzel away, the fairy tied the cut-off hair to the hook at the top of the tower, and when the prince called out:

 

    Rapunzel, Rapunzel!

    Let down your hair!

 

she let down the hair.

The prince was startled to find the fairy instead of his beloved Rapunzel.

"Do you know what, evil one?" cried the angry fairy. "You have lost Rapunzel forever."

The prince, in his despair, threw himself from the tower.

He escaped with his life, but he lost his eyesight in the fall.

Sorrowfully he wandered about in the forest weeping and, eating nothing but grass and roots.

Some years later he happened into the wilderness where Rapunzel lived miserably with her children.

He thought that her voice was familiar.

She recognized him instantly as well and threw her arms around his neck.

Two of her tears fell into his eyes, and they became clear once again, and he could see as well as before.

 

 

 

Final edition, 1857

Once upon a time there was a man and a woman who had long, but to no avail, wished for a child.

Finally the woman came to believe that the good Lord would fulfill her wish.

Through the small rear window of these people's house they could see into a splendid garden that was filled with the most beautiful flowers and herbs.

The garden was surrounded by a high wall, and no one dared enter, because it belonged to a sorceress who possessed great power and was feared by everyone.

One day the woman was standing at this window, and she saw a bed planted with the most beautiful rapunzel.

It looked so fresh and green that she longed for some. It was her greatest desire to eat some of the rapunzel. This desire increased with every day, and not knowing how to get any, she became miserably ill.

Her husband was frightened, and asked her, "What ails you, dear wife?"

"Oh," she answered, " if I do not get some rapunzel from the garden behind our house, I shall die."

The man, who loved her dearly, thought, "Before you let your wife die, you must get her some of the rapunzel, whatever the cost."

So just as it was getting dark he climbed over the high wall into the sorceress's garden, hastily dug up a handful of rapunzel, and took it to his wife.

She immediately made a salad from it, which she devoured eagerly.

It tasted so very good to her that by the next day her desire for more had grown threefold.

If she were to have any peace, the man would have to climb into the garden once again.

Thus he set forth once again just as it was getting dark. But no sooner than he had climbed over the wall than, to his horror, he saw the sorceress standing there before him.

"How can you dare," she asked with an angry look, "to climb into my garden and like a thief to steal my rapunzel? You will pay for this."

"Oh," he answered, "Let mercy overrule justice. I came to do this out of necessity. My wife saw your rapunzel from our window, and such a longing came over her, that she would die, if she did not get some to eat."

The sorceress's anger abated somewhat, and she said, "If things are as you say, I will allow you to take as much rapunzel as you want. But under one condition: You must give me the child that your wife will bring to the world. It will do well, and I will take care of it like a mother."

In his fear the man agreed to everything.

When the woman gave birth, the sorceress appeared, named the little girl Rapunzel, and took her away.

Rapunzel became the most beautiful child under the sun. When she was twelve years old, the sorceress locked her in a tower that stood in a forest and that had neither a door nor a stairway, but only a tiny little window at the very top.

When the sorceress wanted to enter, she stood below and called out:

 

    Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

    Let down your hair to me.

 

Rapunzel had splendid long hair, as fine as spun gold.

When she heard the sorceress's voice, she untied her braids, wound them around a window hook, let her hair fall twenty yards to the ground, and the sorceress climbed up it.

A few years later it happened that a king's son was riding through the forest.

As he approached the tower he heard a song so beautiful that he stopped to listen. It was Rapunzel, who was passing the time by singing with her sweet voice.

The prince wanted to climb up to her, and looked for a door in the tower, but none was to be found.

He rode home, but the song had so touched his heart that he returned to the forest every day and listened to it. One time, as he was thus standing behind a tree, he saw the sorceress approach, and heard her say:

 

    Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

    Let down your hair.

 

Then he knew which ladder would get him into the tower.

And the next day, just as it was beginning to get dark, he went to the tower and called out:

 

    Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

    Let down your hair.

 

The hair fell down, and the prince climbed up.

At first Rapunzel was terribly frightened when a man such as she had never seen before came in to her. However, the prince began talking to her in a very friendly manner, telling her that his heart had been so touched by her singing that he could have no peace until he had seen her in person. Then Rapunzel lost her fear, and when he asked her if she would take him as her husband, she thought, "He would rather have me than would old Frau Gothel." She said yes and placed her hand into his. She said, "I would go with you gladly, but I do not know how to get down. Every time that you come, bring a strand of silk, from which I will weave a ladder. When it is finished I will climb down, and you can take me away on your horse." They arranged that he would come to her every evening, for the old woman came by day.

The sorceress did not notice what was happening until one day Rapunzel said to her, "Frau Gothel, tell me why it is that you are more difficult to pull up than is the young prince, who will be arriving any moment now?"

"You godless child," cried the sorceress. "What am I hearing from you? I thought I had removed you from the whole world, but you have deceived me nonetheless."

In her anger she grabbed Rapunzel's beautiful hair, wrapped it a few times around her left hand, grasped a pair of scissors with her right hand, and snip snap, cut it off.

And she was so unmerciful that she took Rapunzel into a wilderness where she suffered greatly.

On the evening of the same day that she sent Rapunzel away, the sorceress tied the cut-off hair to the hook at the top of the tower, and when the prince called out:

 

    Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

    Let down your hair.

 

she let down the hair.

The prince climbed up, but above, instead of his beloved Rapunzel, he found the sorceress, who peered at him with poisonous and evil looks.

"Aha!" she cried scornfully. "You have come for your Mistress Darling, but that beautiful bird is no longer sitting in her nest, nor is she singing any more. The cat got her, and will scratch your eyes out as well. You have lost Rapunzel. You will never see her again."

The prince was overcome with grief, and in his despair he threw himself from the tower.

He escaped with his life, but the thorns into which he fell poked out his eyes.

Blind, he wandered about in the forest, eating nothing but grass and roots, and doing nothing but weeping and wailing over the loss of his beloved wife.

Thus he wandered about miserably for some years, finally happening into the wilderness where Rapunzel lived miserably with the twins that she had given birth to.

He heard a voice and thought it was familiar.

He advanced toward it, and as he approached, Rapunzel recognized him, and crying, threw her arms around his neck.

Two of her tears fell into his eyes, and they became clear once again, and he could see as well as before. He led her into his kingdom, where he was received with joy, and for a long time they lived happily and satisfied.

Friday's Sung Word: "Reminiscência Triste" by João de Barro and Amado Régis (in Portuguese).

O meu bangalô abandonado é triste com razão
porque nele habitou alguém que nunca teve coração
Como reminiscência o que êle me deixou
foi um (lindo) canário(inho) que ao sentir
a sua ausência nunca mais cantou (bis)

E olhando o bangalô abandonado e triste
o meu peito não resiste
Chora de saudade,
lembrando a história que ali se passou
do canarinho, que gorjeava e redobrava o canto
daquele amor que era ventura, encanto
e que um dia foi-se embora e nunca mais voltou.

 

 

You can listen "Reminiscência Triste" sung by Carmen Miranda  here.