The House of the Vampire - 06 - Chapters 11 and 12

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
The House of the Vampire by George Sylvester Viereck, Chapter eleven.
The music of Reginald Clark's intonation captivated every ear, voluptuously
in measured cadence. It rose and fell, now full and strong,
like the sound of an organ, now soft and clear,

(00:20):
like the tinkling of bells, his voice detracted by its
very tunefulness from what he said. The powerful spell charmed
even Earnest's accustomed ear. The first page gracefully glided from
Reginald's hand to the carpet, before the boy dimly realized
that he was intimately familiar with every word that fell
from Reginald's lips. When the second page slipped, with seeming carelessness,

(00:44):
from the reader's hand, a sudden shudder ran through the
boy's frame. It was as if an icy hand had
gripped his heart. There could be no doubt of it.
This was more than mere coincidence. It was plagiarism. He
wanted to cry out, but the room's swam before his eyes.
Surely he must be dreaming. It was a dream. The
faces of the audience, the lights, Reginald jack all phantasmagoria

(01:09):
of a dream. Perhaps he'd been ill for a long time.
Perhaps Clarke was reading the play for him. He did
not remember having written it, but he probably had fallen
sick after its completion. What strange pranks our memories will
play us. But no, he was not dreaming, and he
had not been ill. He could endure the horrible uncertainty

(01:30):
no longer. His overstrung nerves must find relaxation in some way,
or break with a twang. He turned to his friend,
who was listening with rapt attention. Jack, Jack, he whispered,
what is it that is my play? You mean that
you inspired it? No? I have written it, or rather

(01:50):
was going to write it. Wake up, Ernest, you are mad. No,
in all seriousness, it is mine. I told you. Don't
you remember when we returned from Coney Island that I
was writing a play. Now but not this play. Yes,
this play. I conceived it. I practically wrote it. The
more's the pity that Clark had preconceived it. But it

(02:12):
is mine. Did you tell him a word about it? No?
To be sure, did you leave the manuscript in your room?
I had, in fact not written a line of it. No,
I had not begun the actual writing. Why should a
man of Clark's reputation, plagiarize your plays, written or unwritten.
I can see no reason but tut tut. For already

(02:35):
this whispered conversation had elicited a look like a stab
from a lady before them. Ernest held fast to the
edge of his chair. He must cling to some reality,
or else drift rudderless in a dim sea of vague apprehensions.
Or was Jack right? Was his mind giving way? No? No, no,
There must be a monstrous secret somewhere. But what matter?

(02:57):
Did anything matter? He had called his mate like a
ship lost in the fog for the first time. He
had not responded. He had not understood. The bitterness of
tears rose to the boy's eyes. Above it, all melodiously
ebbed and flowed the rich accents of Reginald Clarke. Ernest
listened to the words of his own play coming from

(03:18):
the older man's mouth. The horrible fascination of the scene
held him entranced. He saw the creations of his mind
pass in review before him, as a man might look
upon the face of his double grinning at him from
behind a door in the hideous hours of night. They
were all there, the mad king, the subtle, witted, courtiers,
the somber hearted Prince, the Queen mother, who had loved

(03:40):
a jester better than her royal mate, and the fruit
of their shameful alliance, the Princess Marigold, a creature woven
of sunshine and sin. Swiftly the action progressed, shadows of
impending death darkened the house of the King. In the
horrible agony of the rack, the old jesture confessed, stripped
of his cap and bells, crowned with a wreath of blood,

(04:02):
he looked so pathetically funny that the Princess Marigold could
not help laughing between her tears. The Queen stood there,
all trembling and pale, without a complaint. She saw her
lover die. The executioner's sword smote the old man's head
straight from the trunk. It rolled at the feet of
the King, who tossed it to Marigold. The little princess

(04:23):
kissed it and covered the grinning horror with her yellow veil.
The last words died away. There was no applause, only silence.
All were stricken with the dread that men feel in
the house of God or his awful presence. Ingenius, But
the boy lay back in his chair. The cold sweat
had gathered on his brow, and his temples throbbed. Nature

(04:45):
had mercifully clogged his head with blood. The rush of
it drowned the crying voice of the nerves, deadening for
a while both consciousness and pain Chapter twelve. Somehow the
night had passed, some somehow in bitterness, in anguish, But
it had passed. Ernest's lips were parched, and sleeplessness had

(05:06):
left its trace in the black rings under the eyes.
When the next morning he confronted Reginald in the studio,
Reginald was sitting at the writing table in his most
characteristic pose, supporting his head with his hand, and looking
with clear, piercing eyes searchingly at the boy. Yes, he observed,
it's a most curious physical phenomenon. You cannot imagine how

(05:29):
real it all seemed to me. The boy spoke painfully, dazed,
as if struck by a blow. Even now, it is
as if something has gone from me, some struggling thought
that I cannot cannot remember. Reginald regarded him as a
physical experimenter might look upon the subject of a particularly
baffling mental disease. You must not think, my boy, that

(05:52):
I bear you any malice for your extraordinary delusion. Before
Jack went away, he gave me an exact account of
all that has happened, divers incidents recurred to him, from
which it appears that at various times in the past
you have been on the verge of a nervous collapse.
A nervous collapse. What is the use of this term
but a euphemism for insanity. Do not despair, dear child,

(06:18):
Reginald caressingly remarked, your disorder is not hopeless, not incurable.
Such crises come to every man who writes. It is
the tribute we pay to the lords of song. The
menacinger of the past wrote with his heart's blood. But
we moderns dip our pen into the sap of our nerves.
We analyze life, love, art, and the dissecting knife that

(06:42):
we use on other men's souls finally turns against ourselves.
But what shall a man do? Shall he sacrifice art
to hygiene and surrender the one attribute that makes him
chiefest of created things? Animals too think, some walk on
two legs, but introspection differentiates man from the rest. Shall

(07:03):
yield up the sweet consciousness of self that we derive
from the analysis of our emotion, for the contentment of
the bull that ruminates in the shade of a tree,
or the healthful stupidity of a mule. Assuredly not. But
what shall a man do, ah, that I cannot tell?
Mathematics offers definite problems that admit of a definite solution.

(07:27):
Life states its problems with less exactness, and offers for
each a different solution. One and one are two to
day and to morrow. Psychical values on each manipulation will
yield a different result. Still, your case is quite clear.
You have overworked yourself in the past, mentally and emotionally.

(07:48):
You have sown unrest, and must not be surprised if
neurasthenia is the harvest thereof. Do you think that I
should go to some sanitarium? The boy falteringly asked God forbid,
go to the sea shore, somewhere where you can sleep
and play. Take your body along, but leave your brain behind.
At least, do not take more of it with you

(08:10):
than is necessary. The summer season in Atlantic City has
just begun. There, as everywhere in American society, you will
be much more welcome if you come without brains. Reginald's
half bantering tone reassured Earnest. A little timidly, he dared
approach once more the strange event that had brought such
havoc with his nervous equilibrium. How do you count for

(08:32):
my strange obsession? One might almost call it a mania.
If it could be accounted for, it would not be strange.
Can you suggest no possible explanation? Perhaps a stray leaf
on my desk, a few indications of the plot, a remark,
who knows, perhaps thought matter is floating in the air. Perhaps,

(08:55):
but we had better not talk of it now. It
would needlessly excite you. You are right, answered Ernest gloomily.
Let us not talk of it. But whatever may be said,
it is a marvelous play. You flatter me. There is
nothing in it that you may not be able to
do equally well some day. Ah No, the boy replied,

(09:17):
looking up to Reginald with admiration. You are the master.
End of Section six