No doubt I now grew very pale; –but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased –and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound –much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath — and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly –more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men — but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed –I raved –I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder –louder –louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! –no, no! They heard! –they suspected! –they knew! –they were making a mockery of my horror! –this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! –and now –again! –hark! louder! louder! louder! louder! —
“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! –tear up the planks! –here, here! –it is the beating of his hideous heart!”
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief –oh, no! –it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself –“It is nothing but the wind in the chimney –it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel –although he neither saw nor heard –to feel the presence of my head within the room.
True! — nervous — very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses — not destroyed — not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily — how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture — a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees — very gradually — I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as the Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is taste. With the intellect or with the conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with duty or with truth.
And now a return to form. Whereas Charles Laughton can make a “horror” movie into a semi-legitimate film, putting Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi into a movie ensures that the full Universal horror treatment will ensue.
The Black Cat was such a pairing. Bela Lugosi is a German medical doctor who was taken prisoner by the Russians during the First World War and eighteen years later he is looking to take revenge on Karloff who was the German commander who sold his troops out before the battle. Also, while Lugosi was in prison Karloff stole away his wife telling her that Lugosi was dead. Lugosi comes back to the scene of the battle where strangely Karloff has built an art deco palace on the site of the fort that he had commanded. Later on, we learn that the whole hill is still booby-trapped with dynamite. Well, you never know when that might come in handy.
There is a young American couple honeymooning in this Hungarian locale (sure why not) and Lugosi befriends them and then because of a motor vehicle accident during a rain storm, Lugosi is forced to bring them both to Karloff’s house where the doctor performs minor medical procedures that require putting her under a powerful sedative that makes her somewhat prescient upon meeting Karloff.
While the Americans sleep that night Lugosi and Karloff have a conference and we find out that Lugosi’s wife died of “pneumonia” years before. Unsurprisingly Karloff decided to have her embalmed and put on display in his basement. Well, sure, who wouldn’t! And if all that isn’t bad enough Karloff tells Lugosi that his young daughter also died. Next, we find out that Karloff is a satanic priest and the next night is the new moon and he will be celebrating a black mass at which he wants to sacrifice the American girl to Satan or something. Lugosi objects and Karloff offers to play a game of chess to see whether she will die. And Lugosi loses. Darn. Meanwhile we discover that Lugosi’s daughter is not dead but is married to Karloff and living in the house they are in. The American girl meets her but somehow Lugosi still hasn’t heard about her.
A lot of goofy stuff happens with Lugosi’s servant pretending to obey Karloff and the American man being trapped in a room that eventually he escapes by just opening the door. And even though the satanic mass is quite crowded Lugosi somehow easily manages to rescue the American girl. And then everyone heads down into the basement for the climax.
So, let’s see. Lugosi stumbles on the dead body of his daughter. Karloff and Lugosi get into a fight that ends when Lugosi’s fatally wounded servant helps him over power and chain up Karloff to a dungeon wall (yes dungeon). Then Lugosi decides to finally revenge the deaths of his wife and daughter on Karloff by skinning him alive. But when the American girl sees this going on she screams and her husband finds their location and mistaking Lugosi’s intention he shoots the doctor. Lugosi calls him a fool but tells the American couple to rush out of the building and get away from the hill because he is about to set off the timer that will trigger the dynamite to blow up the satanists, Karloff and Lugosi. And in the last scene the happy honeymooners continue their railway journey to Budapest.
This movie has so many hokey things going on. Why would Karloff believe that Lugosi’s loyal servant would do his bidding instead of his master? Why would Karloff still have the timer and detonator for the dynamite not only intact but on prominent display in his basement? Why wouldn’t Lugosi have killed Karloff as soon as he saw his wife stuffed and mounted in Karloff’s basement? Are all art deco architects, satanists? Or are all satanists art deco devotees? What did Lugosi’s morbid fear of black cats have to do with anything else in the movie except the title? So many questions.
The strange thing is I enjoyed the movie. Sure, it made no sense. But there was a style and an energy to it that was fun. You sort of knew the American couple would emerge unscathed so really, we were watching the duel between Lugosi and Karloff and we knew that some kind of justice would prevail. And those lousy satanists would get blown up.
In a way, with its modernist architecture juxtaposed against the medieval stonework of the underground fort it was a perfect way for the modern (1930s) world to intrude on the gothic horror that is the stock in trade of the Universal horror movies. Art deco horror. Well done Bela and Boris.
“The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere—
The leaves they were withering and sere;”
…
From “Ulalume” by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
I took a walk around to see if there were any photos to be had. And there were a few. Mostly trees holding onto a precious few dead leaves. And the sky and the leaves reminded me of those lines from Poe. And looking it up I noted that Poe was only forty years old when he died. Well, he was a very strange man with many problems. But he did capture some very vivid imagery in some of his work. And late fall is his special time of year. October, November and December seem to be the time and mood of his prose and poetry. Maybe Poe could qualify as one of Ray Bradbury’s “October People.”
Autumn is a very good time of the year to be in a warm house and sharing good food and good talk with friends and family. And Thanksgiving is sneaking up on us so I checked up on Camera Girl’s holiday planning and indeed she assures me that a twenty five pound turkey will be included and that ample and various pies and other desserts will appear on the menu, so everything seems to be in order.
She informed me that Walmart has begun playing Christmas music outside the building. Apparently broadcasting it will attract holiday shoppers by some sort of sympathetic vibration. I asked her if the music put her in the holiday spirit and she rolled her eyes at me. Despite her clear lack of spirit I will be starting my annual Christmas music marathon very soon. The centerpiece of this program is the album that my parents used to play when I was about ten, “The Little Drummer Boy” by the Harry Simeone Chorale. When I hear those versions sung I might as well be ten years old again. For a little while I can forget the horrors of the world around us and bask in the old remembered warmth of being a kid in Real America.
Warning: What follows is profound. Extinguish all smiles and assume an air of philosophical introspection. It will probably help to slightly furrow your brow.
Polonius said that “brevity is the soul of wit.” And since Polonius was a windbag I feel that I am in good company praising it. Maybe it’s because of Amazon and the payouts on Kindle reads. But for whatever the reason we live in the age of the mega-novel. More than that, we live in the age of the endless book series. Sometimes that’s a not a terrible thing. I’ve been enjoying the Galaxy’s Edge series. They’re a lot of fun. But hand in hand with this emphasis on long novels, short stories have sort of disappeared. I freely admit that statement is an exaggeration. I’m currently reading a collection of short stories taking place in Larry Correia’s Monster Hunter universe. There are short stories to be found. But I can only imagine the meager income an author would earn if he limited his efforts to short stories. I mean, what does Amazon pay an author if someone reads a ten-page short story? Five cents? You could see how that would limit grocery purchases. So, I do not fault the authors who need to eat for gearing their output to the five hundred-page novel. And the same goes for the series. Characters that have proven popular are the obvious candidate for more success for an author.
But I want to throw my weight behind short stories. A good short story is like a good poem. It is concentrated creativity. Without a doubt, Dickens or Tolstoy can create an epic creation of many hundreds of pages with a huge cast of characters that are lovingly depicted in amazing detail. Reading this work is a feast of literary pleasures. Without a doubt. But if a master craftsman writes a short story barely two dozen pages long it can be a revelation. Like some kind of minimalist sketch, he can use a few brush strokes to bring life to a story or a character. And the effect can actually be more vivid than the grand epic. Carefully done, the few words can resonate with the soul where the hundreds of thousands merely numb.
I love short stories. Let me clarify. I love really well written short stories. Edgar Allen Poe, James Joyce, Jack London, Kipling. And in science fiction, Sturgeon, Ellison, Dick, Aldiss. These authors have produced short stories that stand out as original and memorable. They leave an impression on the mind that can be indelible. And of course, not every short story they did is in that category. But that’s okay. It’s the exception that proves the rule. After all it was Sturgeon’s Law that says that “90% of everything is crud.”
I’ll list a few of my favorite short stories. If you feel like playing leave a few of yours in the comments.
