ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lure of the Mask, by Harold MacGrathThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-useit under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Lure of the MaskAuthor: Harold MacGrathIllustrator: Harrison Fisher             Karl AndersonReleaseDate: July 27, 2007 [EBook #22158][Last updated: July 22, 2011]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LURE OF THE MASK ***Produced by Rick Niles, Mary Meehan and theOnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net                      _The_ LURE OF THE MASK                      _By_ HAROLD MAC GRATH                      WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY                         HARRISONFISHER                               AND                          KARL ANDERSON                          INDIANAPOLIS                   THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY                           PUBLISHERS                         COPYRIGHT1908                            PRESS OF                        BRAUN WORTH & CO.                     BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS                         BROOKLYN, N.Y.TOMY FELLOW TRAVELERANDGENTLE CRITICCONTENTS       ITHE VOICE IN THE FOG      II OBJECT, MATRIMONY     III MADAME ANGOT      IV BLINDFOLDED       V THE MASK      VI INTO THE FOG AGAIN     VII THE TOSS OF A COIN    VIII WHAT MERRIHEW FOUND      IX MRS.SANDFORD WINKS       X CARABINIERI      XI THE CITY IN THE SEA     XII A BOX OF CIGARS    XIII KITTY ASKS QUESTIONS     XIV GREY VEILS      XV MANY NAPOLEONS     XVI O'MALLY SUGGESTS    XVIIGIOVANNI   XVIII THE ARIA FROM IL TROVATORE     XIX TWO GENTLEMEN FROM VERONA      XX KITTY DROPS A BANDBOX     XXI AN INVITATION TO A BALL    XXII TANGLES   XXIII THE DÃNOUEMENT    XXIVMEASURE FOR MEASURE     XXV FREE    XXVI THE LETTER   XXVII BELLAGGIOTHE LURE OF THE MASKCHAPTER ITHE VOICE IN THE FOGOut of the unromantic night, out of the somber blurring January fog,came a voicelifted in song, a soprano, rich, full and round, young, yetmatured, sweet and mysterious as a night-bird's, haunting and elusive asthe murmur of the sea in a shell: a lilt from _La Fille de MadameAngot_, a light operalong since forgotten in New York. Hillard,genuinely astonished, lowered his pipe and listened. To sit dreaming byan open window, even in this unlovely first month of the year, in thatgrim unhandsome city which boastsof its riches and still accepts withsmug content its rows upon rows of ugly architecture, to sit dreaming,then, of red-tiled roofs, of cloud-caressed hills, of terracedvineyards, of cypresses in their dark aloofness, is not outof thenatural order of things; but that into this idle and pleasant dreamthere should enter so divine a voice, living, feeling, pulsing, this wasnot ordinary at all.And Hillard was glad that the room was in darkness. He roseeagerly andpeered out. But he saw no one. Across the street the arc-lamp burneddimly, like an opal in the matrix, while of architectural outlines notone remained, the fog having kindly obliterated them.The Voice roseand sank and soared again, drawing nearer and nearer. Itwas joyous and unrestrained, and there was youth in it, the touch ofspring and the breath of flowers. The music was Lecocq's, that is tosay, French; but thetongue was of a country which Hillard knew to bethe garden of the world. Presently he observed a shadow emerge from theyellow mist, to come within the circle of light, which, faint as it was,limned in against thenothingness beyond the form of a woman. She walkeddirectly under his window.As the invisible comes suddenly out of the future to assume distinctproportions which either make or mar us, so did this unknowncantatricecome out of the fog that night and enter into Hillard's life, toreadjust its ambitions, to divert its aimless course, to give impetus toit, and a directness which hitherto it had not known."Ah!"He leaned over thesill at a perilous angle, the bright coal of his pipespilling comet-wise to the area-way below. He was only subconscious ofhaving spoken; but this syllable was sufficient to spoil theenchantment. The Voice ceasedabruptly, with an odd break. The singerlooked up. Possibly her astonishment surpassed even that of heraudience. For a few minutes she had forgotten that she was in New York,where romance may be found only in thebook-shops; she had forgottenthat it was night, a damp and chill forlorn night; she had forgotten thepain in her heart; there had been only a great and irresistible longingto sing.Though she raised her face, he coulddistinguish no feature, for thelight was behind. However, he was a man who made up his mind quickly.Brunette or blond, beautiful or otherwise, it needed but a moment tofind out. Even as this decision was made hewas in the upper hall,taking the stairs two at a bound. He ran out into the night, bareheaded.Up the street he saw a flying shadow. Plainly she had anticipated hisimpulse and the curiosity behind it. Even as he gavechase the shadowmelted in the fog, as ice melts in running waters, as flame dissolves insunshine. She was gone. He cupped his ear with his hand; in vain, therecame no sound as of pattering feet; there was nothing butfog andsilence."Well, if this doesn't beat the Dutch!" he murmured.He laughed disappointedly. It did not matter that he was three andthirty; he still retained youth enough to feel chagrined at such atrivial defeat. Herehad been something like a genuine adventure, and ithad slipped like water through his clumsy fingers."Deuce take the fog! But for that I'd have caught her."But reason promptly asked him what he should have donehad he caught thesinger. Yes, supposing he had, what excuse would he have had to offer?Denial on her part would have been simple, and righteous indignation atbeing accosted on the street simpler still. He had notseen her face,and doubtless she was aware of this fact. Thus, she would have had allthe weapons for defense and he not one for attack. But though reasonargued well, it did not dislodge his longing. He would havebeenperfectly happy to have braved her indignation for a single glance ather face. He walked back, lighting his pipe. Who could she be? Whatpeculiar whimsical freak had sent her singing past his window at oneo'clockof the morning? A grand opera singer, returning home from a latesupper? But he dismissed this opinion even as he advanced it. He knewsomething about grand opera singers. They attend late suppers, it istrue, butthey ride home in luxurious carriages and never risk theirgolden voices in this careless if romantic fashion. And in New Yorknobody took the trouble to serenade anybody else, unless paid in advanceand armed with apolice permit. As for being a comic-opera star, herefused to admit the possibility; and he relegated this well-satisfiedconstellation to the darks of limbo. He had heard a Voice.A vast, shadow loomed up in the middle ofthe street, presently to takeupon itself the solid outlines of a policeman who came lumbering over toadd or subtract his quota of interest in the affair. Hillard wiselystopped and waited for him, pulling up the collar of hisjacket, as hebegan to note that there was a winter's tang to the fog."Hi, what's all this?" the policeman called out roughly."To what do you refer?" Hillard counter-questioned, puffing. He slippedhis hands into thepockets of his jacket."I heard a woman singin', that's what!" explained the guardian of thelaw."So did I.""Oh, you did, huh?""Certainly. It is patent that my ears are as good as yours.""Huh! See her?""For a moment,"Hillard admitted."Well, we can't have none o' this in the streets. It's disorderly.""My friend," said Hillard, rather annoyed at the policeman's tone, "youdon't think for an instant that I was directing this operetta?""Think?Where's your hat?"Hillard ran his hand over his head. The policeman had him here. "I didnot bring it out.""Too warm and summery; huh? It don't look good. I've been watchin' theseparts fer a leddy. They call her LeddyLightfinger; an' she has some O'the gents done to a pulp when it comes to liftin' jools an' trinkets.Somebody fergits to lock the front door, an' she finds it out. Why didyou come out without yer lid?""Just forgot it, that'sall.""Which way'd she go?""You'll need a map and a search-light. I started to run after hermyself. I heard a voice from my window; I saw a woman; I made for thestreet; _niente_!""Huh?""_Niente_, nothing!""Oh! I see;Dago. Seems to me now that this woman was singin' I-taly-an,too." They were nearing the light, and the policeman gazed intently atthe hatless young man. "Why, it's Mr. Hillard! I'm surprised. Well,well! Some day I'llrun in a bunch o' these chorus leddies, jes' fer alesson. They git lively at the restaurants over on Broadway, an' thinthey raise the dead with their singin', which, often as not, is anythin'but singin'. An' here it is, afterone.""But this was not a chorus lady," replied Hillard, thoughtfully reachinginto his vest for a cigar."Sure, an' how do you know?" with renewed suspicions."The lady had a singing voice.""Huh! They all think alike aboutthat. But mebbe she wasn't bad at thebusiness. Annyhow....""It was rather out of time and place, eh?" helpfully."That's about the size of it. This Leddy Lightfinger is a case. She hasus all thinkin' on our nights off. Cleveran' edjicated, an' jabbers inhalf a dozen tongues. It's a thousan' to the man who jugs her. But shedon't sing; at least, they ain't any report to that effect. Perhaps yourleddy was jes' larkin' a bit. But it's got to bestopped."Hillard passed over the cigar, and the policeman bit off the end,nodding with approval at such foresight. The young man then profferedthe coal of his pipe and the policeman took his light therefrom,realizingthat after such a peace-offering there was nothing for him todo but move on. Yet on dismal lonesome nights, like this one, it is agodsend and a comfort to hear one's own voice against the darkness. Sohelingered."Didn't get a peep at her face?""Not a single feature. The light was behind her." Hillard tapped one toeand then the other."An' how was she dressed?""In fog, for all I could see.""On the level now, didn't youknow who she was?" The policeman gaveHillard a sly dig in the ribs with his club."On my word!""Some swell, mebbe.""Undoubtedly a lady. That's why it looks odd, why it brought me into thestreet. She sang in classicItalian. And what's more, for the privilegeof hearing that voice again, I should not mind sitting on this cold curbtill the milkman comes around in the morning.""That wouldn't be fer long," laughed the policeman, takingout his watchand holding it close to the end of his cigar. "Twenty minutes after one.Well, I must be gittin' back to me beat. An' you'd better be goin' in;it's cold. Good night.""Good night," Hillard respondedcheerfully."Say, what's I-taly-an fer good night?" still reluctant to go on."_Buona notte._""Bony notty; huh, sounds like Chinese fer rheumatism. Been to Italy?""I was born there," patiently."No! Why, you're noDago!""Not so much as an eyelash. The stork happened to drop the basket there,that's all.""Ha! I see. Well, Ameriky is good enough fer me an' mine," complacently."I dare say!""An' if this stogy continues t' behave,we'll say no more about thevanishin' leddy." And with this the policeman strolled off into the fog,his suspicions in nowise removed. He knew many rich young bachelors likeHillard. If it wasn't a chorus lady, it was aprima donna, which was notfar in these degenerate days from being the same thing.Hillard regained his room and leaned with his back to the radiator. Hehad an idea. It was rather green and salad, but as soon as hishandswere warm he determined to put this idea into immediate use. The Voicehad stirred him deeply, stirred him with the longing to hear it again,to see the singer's face, to learn what extraordinary impulse hadloosedthe song. Perhaps it was his unspoken loneliness striving to call outagainst this self-imposed isolation; for he was secretly lonely, as allbachelors must be who have passed the Rubicon of thirty. He madenoanalysis of this new desire, or rather this old desire, newly awakened.He embraced it gratefully. Such is the mystery and power of the humanvoice: this one, passing casually under his window, had awakenedhim.Never the winter came with its weary round of rain and fog and snow thathis heart and mind did not fly over the tideless southern sea to theland of his birth if not of his blood. Sorrento, that jewel of the ruddyclifts!There was fog outside his window, and yet how easy it was topicture the turquoise bay of Naples shimmering in the morning light!There was Naples itself, like a string of its own pink coral, lyingcrescent-wise on thedistant strand; there were the snowcaps fading onthe far horizon; the bronzed fishermen and their wives, a sheer twohundred feet below him, pulling in their glistening nets; the amethystisles of Capri and Ischiaeternally hanging midway between the blue ofthe sky and the blue of the sea; and there, towering menacingly aboveall this melting beauty, the dark, grim pipe of Vulcan. How easily,indeed, he could see all thesethings!With a quick gesture of both hands, Latin, always Latin, he crossed theroom to a small writing-desk, turned on the lights and sat down. Hesmiled as he took up the pen to begin his composition. Not one chanceina thousand. And after several attempts he realized that the letter hehad in mind was not the simplest to compose. There were a dozen futileefforts before he produced anything like satisfaction. Then he filledout asmall check. A little later he stole down-stairs, round the cornerto the local branch of the post-office, and returned. It was only ablind throw, such as dicers sometimes make in the dark. But chance lovesher truegamester, and to him she makes a faithful servant."I should be sorely tempted," he mused, picking up a novel and selectinga comfortable angle in the Morris, "I should be sorely tempted to callany other man a silly ass.Leddy Lightfinger--it would be a fine joke ifmy singer turned out to be that irregular person."He fell to reading, but it was not long before he yawned. He shied thebook into a corner, drew off his boots and cast them intothe hall. Amoment after his valet appeared, gathered up the boots, tucked themunder his arm, and waited."I want nothing, Giovanni. I have only been around to the post-office.""I heard the door open and close fourtimes, signore.""It was I each time. If this fog does not change into rain, I shall wantmy riding-breeches to-morrow morning.""It is always raining here," Giovanni remarked sadly."Not always; there are pleasant days inthe spring and summer. It isbecause this is not Italy. The Hollander wonders how any reasonablebeing can dwell in a country where they do not drink gin. It's home,Giovanni; rain pelts you from a different angle here.There is nothingmore; you may go. It is two o'clock, and you are dead for sleep."But Giovanni only bowed; he did not stir."Well?" inquired his master."It is seven years now, signore.""So it is; seven this coming April.""Iam now a citizen of this country; I obey its laws; I vote.""Yes, Giovanni, you are an American citizen, and you should be proud ofit."Giovanni smiled. "I may return to my good Italia without danger.""That depends. Ifyou do not run across any official who recognizesyou."Giovanni spread his hands. "Official memory seldom lasts so long asseven years. The signore has crossed four times in this period.""I would gladly have taken youeach time, as you know.""Oh, yes! But in two or three years the police do not forget. In sevenit is different.""Ah!" Hillard was beginning to understand the trend of thisconversation. "So, then, you wish to return?""Yes,signore. I have saved a little money," modestly."A little?" Hillard laughed. "For seven years you have received fiftyAmerican dollars every month, and out of it you do not spend as manycopper centesimi. I am certainthat you have twenty thousand lire tuckedaway in your stocking; a fortune!""I buy the blacking for the signore's boots," gravely.Hillard saw the twinkle in the black eyes. "I have never," he saidtruthfully, "asked you toblack my boots.""Penance, signore, penance for my sins; and I am not without gratitude.There was a time when I had rather cut off a hand than black a boot; butall that is changed. We of the Sabine Hills are proud, asthe signoreknows. We are Romans out there; we despise the cities; and we do nothold out our palms for the traveler's pennies. I am a peasant, butalways remember the blood of the CÃ¦sars. Who can say? Besides, Ihaveheld a sword for the church. I owe no allegiance to the puny House ofSavoy!" There was no twinkle in the black eyes now; there was aferocious gleam. It died away quickly, however; the squared shouldersdrooped,and there was a deprecating shrug. "Pardon, signore; this isfar away from the matter of boots. I grow boastful; I am an old man andshould know better. But does the signore return to Italy in the spring?""I don't know,Giovanni, I don't know. But what's on your mind?""Nothing new, signore," with eyes cast down to hide the returninglights."You are a bloodthirsty ruffian!" said Hillard shortly. "Will time neversoften the murder in yourheart?""I am as the good God made me. I have seen through blood, and time cannot change that. Besides, the Holy Father will do something for one whofought for the cause.""He will certainly not countenancebloodshed, Giovanni.""He can absolve it. And as you say, I am rich, as riches go in theSabine Hills.""I was in hopes you had forgotten.""Forgotten? The signore will never understand; it is his father's blood.She was sopretty and youthful, eye of my eye, heart of my heart! Andinnocent! She sang like the nightingale. She was always happy. Up withthe dawn, to sleep with the stars. We were alone, she and I. The sheepsupported meand she sold her roses and dried lavender. It was all sobeautiful ... till he came. Ah, had he loved her! But a plaything, apastime! The signore never had a daughter. What is she now? A namelessthing in the streets!"Giovanni raised his arms tragically; the hootsclattered to the floor. "Seven years! It is a long time for one of myblood to wait.""Enough!" cried Hillard; but there was a hardness in his throat at thesight of the old man'stears. Where was the proud and stately man, theblack-bearded shepherd in faded blue linen, in picturesque garters, withhis reed-like pipe, that he, Hillard, had known in his boyhood days?Surely not here. Giovanni hadknown the great wrong, but Hillard couldnot in conscience's name foster the spirit which demanded an eye for aneye. So he said: "I can give you only my sympathy for your loss, but Iabhor the spirit of revenge whichcan not find satisfaction in anythingsave murder."Giovanni once more picked up the boots. "I shall leave the signore inthe spring.""As you please," said Hillard gently.Giovanni bowed gravely and made off with his boots.Hillard remainedstaring thoughtfully at the many-colored squares in the rug under hisfeet. It would be lonesome with Giovanni gone. The old man had evidentlymade up his mind.... But the Woman with the Voice, wouldshe see thenotice in the paper? And if she did, would she reply to it? What afoundation for a romance!... Bah! He prepared for bed.To those who reckon earthly treasures as the only thing worth having,John Hillard wasa fortunate young man. That he was without kith or kinwas considered by many as an additional piece of good fortune. Born inSorrento, in one of the charming villas which sweep down to the verybrow of the cliffs,educated in Rome up to his fifteenth year; taken atthat age from the dreamy, drifting land and thrust into the noisy,bustling life which was his inheritance; fatherless and motherless attwenty; a college youth who wasfor ever mixing his Italian with hisEnglish and being laughed at; hating tumult and loving quiet;warm-hearted and impulsive, yet meeting only habitual reserve from hiscompatriots whichever way he turned; it is not tobe wondered at that hepreferred the land of his birth to that of his blood.All this might indicate an artistic temperament, the ability to do pettythings grandly; but Hillard had escaped this. He loved his Raphaels,hisTitians, his Veroneses, his Rubenses, without any desire to makeindifferent copies of them; he admired his Dante, his Petrarch, hisGoldoni, without the wish to imitate them. He was full of sentimentwithout beingsentimental, a poet who thought but never indited verses.His father's blood was in his veins, that is to say, the salt ofrestraint; thus, his fortune grew and multiplied. The strongest andreddest corpuscle had been thegift of his mother. She had left him thelegacy of loving all beautiful things in moderation, the legacy ofgentleness, of charity, of strong loves and frank hatreds, of humor, ofliving out in the open, of dreaming greatthings and accomplishing noneof them.The old house in which he lived was not in the fashionable quarter ofthe town; but that did not matter. Nor did it vary externally from anyof its unpretentious neighbors. Inside,


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Research Magnificent, by H. G. WellsThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Research MagnificentAuthor: H. G. WellsPosting Date: August 3, 2008 [EBook #1138]Release Date:December, 1997Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RESEARCH MAGNIFICENT ***Produced by Donald LainsonTHE RESEARCH MAGNIFICENTby H. G. Wells(1915)CONTENTS     THEPRELUDE           ON FEAR AND ARISTOCRACY     THE STORY       I.  THE BOY GROWS UP      II.  THE YOUNG MAN ABOUT TOWN     III.  AMANDA      IV.  THE SPIRITED HONEYMOON       V.  THE ASSIZE OFJEALOUSY      VI.  THE NEW HAROUN AL RASCHIDTHE RESEARCH MAGNIFICENTTHE PRELUDEON FEAR AND ARISTOCRACY1The story of William Porphyry Benham is the story of a man who was ledinto adventure by anidea. It was an idea that took possession of hisimagination quite early in life, it grew with him and changed with him,it interwove at last completely with his being. His story is its story.It was traceably germinating in theschoolboy; it was manifestly presentin his mind at the very last moment of his adventurous life. He belongedto that fortunate minority who are independent of daily necessities, sothat he was free to go about the worldunder its direction. It led himfar. It led him into situations that bordered upon the fantastic, itmade him ridiculous, it came near to making him sublime. And this ideaof his was of such a nature that in several aspects hecould documentit. Its logic forced him to introspection and to the making of a record.An idea that can play so large a part in a life must necessarily havesomething of the complication and protean quality of life itself. Itisnot to be stated justly in any formula, it is not to be rendered by anepigram. As well one might show a man's skeleton for his portrait. Yet,essentially, Benham's idea was simple. He had an incurable, an almostinnatepersuasion that he had to live life nobly and thoroughly. Hiscommoner expression for that thorough living is "the aristocratic life."But by "aristocratic" he meant something very different from thequality of a Russianprince, let us say, or an English peer. He meant anintensity, a clearness.... Nobility for him was to get something out ofhis individual existence, a flame, a jewel, a splendour--it is a thingeasier to understand than tosay.One might hesitate to call this idea "innate," and yet it comes sooninto a life when it comes at all. In Benham's case we might trace itback to the Day Nursery at Seagate, we might detect it stirring alreadyat thepetticoat stage, in various private struttings and valiantdreamings with a helmet of pasteboard and a white-metal sword. We havemost of us been at least as far as that with Benham. And we havedied like Horatius,slaying our thousands for our country, or we haveperished at the stake or faced the levelled muskets of the firingparty--"No, do not bandage my eyes"--because we would not betray thesecret path that meantdestruction to our city. But with Benham thevein was stronger, and it increased instead of fading out as he grewto manhood. It was less obscured by those earthy acquiescences, thosediscretions, that saving sense ofproportion, which have made most ofus so satisfactorily what we are. "Porphyry," his mother had discoveredbefore he was seventeen, "is an excellent boy, a brilliant boy, but, Ibegin to see, just a little unbalanced."Theinterest of him, the absurdity of him, the story of him, is that.Most of us are--balanced; in spite of occasional reveries we do come toterms with the limitations of life, with those desires and dreams anddiscretions that,to say the least of it, qualify our nobility, we takerefuge in our sense of humour and congratulate ourselves on a certainamiable freedom from priggishness or presumption, but for Benham thateasy declension to ahumorous acceptance of life as it is did not occur.He found his limitations soon enough; he was perpetuallyrediscovering them, but out of these interments of the spirit he roseagain--remarkably. When we others havedecided that, to be plain aboutit, we are not going to lead the noble life at all, that the thing istoo ambitious and expensive even to attempt, we have done so becausethere were other conceptions of existence that weregood enough for us,we decided that instead of that glorious impossible being of ourselves,we would figure in our own eyes as jolly fellows, or sly dogs, or sane,sound, capable men or brilliant successes, and soforth--practicablethings. For Benham, exceptionally, there were not these practicablethings. He blundered, he fell short of himself, he had--as you willbe told--some astonishing rebuffs, but they never turned him asideforlong. He went by nature for this preposterous idea of nobility as alinnet hatched in a cage will try to fly.And when he discovered--and in this he was assisted not a little by hisfriend at his elbow--when he discoveredthat Nobility was not the simplething he had at first supposed it to be, he set himself in a mood onlyslightly disconcerted to the discovery of Nobility. When it dawned uponhim, as it did, that one cannot be noble, so tospeak, IN VACUO, he sethimself to discover a Noble Society. He began with simple beliefs andfine attitudes and ended in a conscious research. If he could not getthrough by a stride, then it followed that he must getthrough by aclimb. He spent the greater part of his life studying and experimentingin the noble possibilities of man. He never lost his absurd faith inthat conceivable splendour. At first it was always just round thecorneror just through the wood; to the last it seemed still but a little waybeyond the distant mountains.For this reason this story has been called THE RESEARCH MAGNIFICENT. Itwas a real research, it was documented.In the rooms in Westhaven Streetthat at last were as much as one could call his home, he had accumulatedmaterial for--one hesitates to call it a book--let us say it was ananalysis of, a guide to the noble life. Thereafter his tragic deathcame his old friend White, the journalist and novelist, under a promise,and found these papers; he found them to the extent of a crammedbureau, half a score of patent files quite distended and awriting-tabledrawer-full, and he was greatly exercised to find them. They were,White declares, they are still after much experienced handling, anindigestible aggregation. On this point White is very assured.WhenBenham thought he was gathering together a book he was dreaming, Whitesays. There is no book in it....Perhaps too, one might hazard, Benham was dreaming when he thought thenoble life a human possibility.Perhaps man, like the ape and the hyaenaand the tapeworm and many other of God's necessary but less attractivecreatures, is not for such exalted ends. That doubt never seems to havegot a lodgment in Benham'sskull; though at times one might suppose itthe basis of White's thought. You will find in all Benham's story,if only it can be properly told, now subdued, now loud and amazed anddistressed, but always traceable, thisstartled, protesting question,"BUT WHY THE DEVIL AREN'T WE?" As though necessarily we ought to be.He never faltered in his persuasion that behind the dingy face of thisworld, the earthy stubbornness, the basenessand dulness of himselfand all of us, lurked the living jewels of heaven, the light of glory,things unspeakable. At first it seemed to him that one had only just tohammer and will, and at the end, after a life of willing andhammering,he was still convinced there was something, something in the nature ofan Open Sesame, perhaps a little more intricate than one had supposedat first, a little more difficult to secure, but still in thatnature,which would suddenly roll open for mankind the magic cave of theuniverse, that precious cave at the heart of all things, in which onemust believe.And then life--life would be the wonder it so perplexinglyjustisn't....2Benham did not go about the world telling people of this consumingresearch. He was not the prophet or preacher of his idea. It was tooliving and intricate and uncertain a part of him to speak freely about.Itwas his secret self; to expose it casually would have shamed him. Hedrew all sorts of reserves about him, he wore his manifest imperfectionsturned up about him like an overcoat in bitter wind. He was contentto beinexplicable. His thoughts led him to the conviction that thismagnificent research could not be, any more than any other researchcan be, a solitary enterprise, but he delayed expression; in a mightywriting and stowingaway of these papers he found a relief from theunpleasant urgency to confess and explain himself prematurely. So thatWhite, though he knew Benham with the intimacy of an old schoolfellowwho had renewed hisfriendship, and had shared his last days and been awitness of his death, read the sheets of manuscript often with surpriseand with a sense of added elucidation.And, being also a trained maker of books, White as heread was moreand more distressed that an accumulation so interesting should be soentirely unshaped for publication. "But this will never make a book,"said White with a note of personal grievance. His hasty promise intheirlast moments together had bound him, it seemed, to a task he now foundimpossible. He would have to work upon it tremendously; and even then hedid not see how it could be done.This collection of papers wasnot a story, not an essay, not aconfession, not a diary. It was--nothing definable. It went into noconceivable covers. It was just, White decided, a proliferation. A vastproliferation. It wanted even a title. There were signsthat Benham hadintended to call it THE ARISTOCRATIC LIFE, and that he had tried at someother time the title of AN ESSAY ON ARISTOCRACY. Moreover, it wouldseem that towards the end he had been disposed todrop the word"aristocratic" altogether, and adopt some such phrase as THE LARGERLIFE. Once it was LIFE SET FREE. He had fallen away more and more fromnearly everything that one associates with aristocracy--atthe end onlyits ideals of fearlessness and generosity remained.Of all these titles THE ARISTOCRATIC LIFE seemed at first most likea clue to White. Benham's erratic movements, his sudden impulses, hisangers, hisunaccountable patiences, his journeys to strange places, andhis lapses into what had seemed to be pure adventurousness, could all beput into system with that. Before White had turned over three pages ofthe greatfascicle of manuscript that was called Book Two, he had foundthe word "Bushido" written with a particularly flourishing capitalletter and twice repeated. "That was inevitable," said White with thecomforting regret onefeels for a friend's banalities. "And it dates...[unreadable] this was early....""Modern aristocracy, the new aristocracy," he read presently, "has stillto be discovered and understood. This is the necessary next stepformankind. As far as possible I will discover and understand it, and asfar as I know it I will be it. This is the essential disposition of mymind. God knows I have appetites and sloths and habits and blindnesses,but so faras it is in my power to release myself I will escape tothis...."3White sat far into the night and for several nights turning over papersand rummaging in untidy drawers. Memories came back to him of his deadfriend andpieced themselves together with other memories and joinedon to scraps in this writing. Bold yet convincing guesses began to leapacross the gaps. A story shaped itself....The story began with the schoolfellow he hadknown at MinchinghamptonSchool.Benham had come up from his father's preparatory school at Seagate. Hehad been a boy reserved rather than florid in his acts and manners, aboy with a pale face, incorrigible hairand brown eyes that went darkand deep with excitement. Several times White had seen him excited, andwhen he was excited Benham was capable of tensely daring things. On oneoccasion he had insisted upon walkingacross a field in which was anaggressive bull. It had been put there to prevent the boys takinga short cut to the swimming place. It had bellowed tremendously andfinally charged him. He had dodged it and got away; atthe time it hadseemed an immense feat to White and the others who were safely upthe field. He had walked to the fence, risking a second charge by hisdeliberation. Then he had sat on the fence and declared hisintentionof always crossing the field so long as the bull remained there. He hadsaid this with white intensity, he had stopped abruptly in mid-sentence,and then suddenly he had dropped to the ground, clutched thefence,struggled with heaving shoulders, and been sick.The combination of apparently stout heart and manifestly weak stomachhad exercised the Minchinghampton intelligence profoundly.On one or two other occasionsBenham had shown courage of the samerather screwed-up sort. He showed it not only in physical but in mentalthings. A boy named Prothero set a fashion of religious discussionin the school, and Benham, after someself-examination, professed anatheistical republicanism rather in the manner of Shelley. This broughthim into open conflict with Roddles, the History Master. Roddles haddiscovered these theological controversies insome mysterious way, andhe took upon himself to talk at Benham and Prothero. He treated them tothe common misapplication of that fool who "hath said in his heart thereis no God." He did not perceive there was anydifference between thefool who says a thing in his heart and one who says it in the dormitory.He revived that delectable anecdote of the Eton boy who professeddisbelief and was at once "soundly flogged" by his headmaster. "Yearsafterwards that boy came back to thank ----""Gurr," said Prothero softly. "STEW--ard!""Your turn next, Benham," whispered an orthodox controversialist."Good Lord! I'd like to see him," said Benham witha forced loudnessthat could scarcely be ignored.The subsequent controversy led to an interview with the head. Fromit Benham emerged more whitely strung up than ever. "He said he wouldcertainly swish me if Ideserved it, and I said I would certainly killhim if he did.""And then?""He told me to go away and think it over. Said he would preach aboutit next Sunday.... Well, a swishing isn't a likely thing anyhow. ButI would....There isn't a master here I'd stand a thrashing from--notone.... And because I choose to say what I think!... I'd run amuck."For a week or so the school was exhilarated by a vain and ill-concealedhope that the headmight try it just to see if Benham would. It wastantalizingly within the bounds of possibility....These incidents came back to White's mind as he turned over thenewspapers in the upper drawer of the bureau. The drawerwas labelled"Fear--the First Limitation," and the material in it was evidentlydesigned for the opening volume of the great unfinished book. Indeed, aportion of it was already arranged and written up.As White readthrough this manuscript he was reminded of a score ofschoolboy discussions Benham and he and Prothero had had together. Herewas the same old toughness of mind, a kind of intellectual hardihood,that hadsometimes shocked his schoolfellows. Benham had been one ofthose boys who do not originate ideas very freely, but who go out tothem with a fierce sincerity. He believed and disbelieved with emphasis.Prothero hadfirst set him doubting, but it was Benham's own temperamenttook him on to denial. His youthful atheism had been a matter for secretconsternation in White. White did not believe very much in God eventhen, but thispositive disbelieving frightened him. It was goingtoo far. There had been a terrible moment in the dormitory, during athunderstorm, a thunderstorm so vehement that it had awakened themall, when Latham, thehumourist and a quietly devout boy, had suddenlychallenged Benham to deny his Maker."NOW say you don't believe in God?"Benham sat up in bed and repeated his negative faith, while littleHopkins, the Bishop's son,being less certain about the accuracy ofProvidence than His aim, edged as far as he could away from Benham'scubicle and rolled his head in his bedclothes."And anyhow," said Benham, when it was clear that he was notto bestruck dead forthwith, "you show a poor idea of your God to think he'dkill a schoolboy for honest doubt. Even old Roddles--""I can't listen to you," cried Latham the humourist, "I can't listen toyou.It's--HORRIBLE.""Well, who began it?" asked Benham.A flash of lightning lit the dormitory and showed him to Whitewhite-faced and ablaze with excitement, sitting up with the bed-clothesabout him. "Oh WOW!" wailedthe muffled voice of little Hopkins as thethunder burst like a giant pistol overhead, and he buried his head stilldeeper in the bedclothes and gave way to unappeasable grief.Latham's voice came out of the darkness."This ATHEISM that you andBilly Prothero have brought into the school--"He started violently at another vivid flash, and every one remainedsilent, waiting for the thunder....But White remembered no more of thecontroversy because he had made afrightful discovery that filled and blocked his mind. Every time thelightning flashed, there was a red light in Benham's eyes....It was only three days after when Prothero discoveredexactly the samephenomenon in the School House boothole and talked of cats and cattle,that White's confidence in their friend was partially restored....4"Fear, the First Limitation"--his title indicated the spirit ofBenham'sopening book very clearly. His struggle with fear was the very beginningof his soul's history. It continued to the end. He had hardly decided tolead the noble life before he came bump against the fact that hewasa physical coward. He felt fear acutely. "Fear," he wrote, "is theforemost and most persistent of the shepherding powers that keep usin the safe fold, that drive us back to the beaten track and comfortand--futility.The beginning of all aristocracy is the subjugation offear."At first the struggle was so great that he hated fear without anyqualification; he wanted to abolish it altogether."When I was a boy," he writes, "I thought Iwould conquer fear for goodand all, and never more be troubled by it. But it is not to be done inthat way. One might as well dream of having dinner for the rest of one'slife. Each time and always I have found that it hasto be conqueredafresh. To this day I fear, little things as well as big things. I haveto grapple with some little dread every day--urge myself.... Just asI have to wash and shave myself every day.... I believe it is sowithevery one, but it is difficult to be sure; few men who go into dangerscare very much to talk about fear...."Later Benham found some excuses for fear, came even to dealings withfear. He never, however, admits thatthis universal instinct is anybetter than a kindly but unintelligent nurse from whose fosteringrestraints it is man's duty to escape. Discretion, he declared, mustremain; a sense of proportion, an "adequacy of enterprise,"but thediscretion of an aristocrat is in his head, a tactical detail, it hasnothing to do with this visceral sinking, this ebb in the nerves. "Fromtop to bottom, the whole spectrum of fear is bad, from panic fear atoneextremity down to that mere disinclination for enterprise, thatreluctance and indolence which is its lowest phase. These are things ofthe beast, these are for creatures that have a settled environment, alife history, thatspin in a cage of instincts. But man is a beast ofthat kind no longer, he has left his habitat, he goes out to limitlessliving...."This idea of man going out into new things, leaving securities, habits,customs, leaving hisnormal life altogether behind him, underlay allBenham's aristocratic conceptions. And it was natural that heshould consider fear as entirely inconvenient, treat it indeed withingratitude, and dwell upon the immenseliberations that lie beyond forthose who will force themselves through its remonstrances....Benham confessed his liability to fear quite freely in these notes. Hisfear of animals was ineradicable. He had had anoverwhelming dread ofbears until he was twelve or thirteen, the child's irrational dreadof impossible bears, bears lurking under the bed and in the eveningshadows. He confesses that even up to manhood he could notcross afield containing cattle without keeping a wary eye upon them--his bulladventure rather increased than diminished that disposition--he hated astrange dog at his heels and would manoeuvre himself as soon aspossibleout of reach of the teeth or heels of a horse. But the peculiar dread ofhis childhood was tigers. Some gaping nursemaid confronted him suddenlywith a tiger in a cage in the menagerie annexe of a circus. "Mysmallmind was overwhelmed.""I had never thought," White read, "that a tiger was much larger thana St. Bernard dog.... This great creature!... I could not believe anyhunter would attack such a monster except by


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   <title>"8MM", by Andrew Kevin Walker</title>
                             eightmillimeter                            written by                            Andrew Kevin Walker                                                      5/06/97                                                      first     INT.  MIAMI AIRPORT,TERMINAL -- DAY     Amongst the weary tourist families and solitary businessmen     sits TOM WELLES, middle-aged, hair neat, suit crisp and     gray.  He's eating crackers from a cellophane package,     sippingsoda from a paper cup, watching an ARRIVAL GATE.     AT THE GATE     PASSENGERS arrive: the paunchy, graying men of First Class     leading the pack, except for a handsome YOUNG REPUBLICAN     posterboy hurrying along.     ACROSS THE TERMINAL     Welles gets up and FOLLOWS...     EXT.  MIAMI AIRPORT, CURBSIDE -- DAY     Welles comes outside, squinting in the sun, moving downthe     sidewalk, looking back over his shoulder...     The Young Republican is lead to a waiting LIMO by a DRIVER.     Welles moves to the nearby TAXI STAND...     INT.  TAXI -- DAY     Welles gets in, turningin his seat to watch behind.                             CAB DRIVER               Where to?     Welles keeps watching, sees the limo pull away and pass.                             WELLES               Follow thatlimousine.  Don't get               too close, don't let it get too far               away.  Just keep with it.                             CAB DRIVER               Youkidding?                             WELLES               Nope.     The cab set in motion.  Welles takes out cigarettes,     lighting one, takes out a small NOTEPAD and makes notations.                             CABDRIVER               Uh, listen... you're not supposed to               be smoking in here.  I'm sorry,               that's company policy...                             WELLES               How about this... every cigaretteI               smoke, I give you five dollars?                             CAB DRIVER               Okay... okay, yeah, that'd be good...     EXT.  MIAMI BEACH, "GOLD COAST" -- DAY     In front of an Art Decohotel, the driver opens the     limousine door and the Young Republican steps out.      ACROSS THE STREET      Welles watches from inside the double-parked taxicab.      EXT.  MIAMI BEACH MOTORLODGE -- DAY      Not exactly four-star.  "AD LT MOVIES EVERY ROOM."      INT.  MIAMI BEACH MOTOR LODGE -- DAY     Welles is asleep on the bed, full dressed, hands folded     across hisstomach, snoring lightly, sweaty.      INT.  MIAMI BEACH MOTOR LODGE, RESTAURANT -- DAY      Welles sits alone at the bar, eating a sandwich, bored.  He     watches some fuzzy ESPN on the t.v., looks athis watch.      EXT.  MIAMI BEACH MOTOR LODGE -- DAY      Welles walks across the parking lot, gets into his RENTAL     CAR, starts it and drives away.      EXT.  MIAMI BEACH DISCOTHEQUE -- NIGHT     Young Republican and a GAUDY WOMAN exit the disco, MUSIC     THROBBING out from the doors behind them.  They join hands,     drunk, heading to the street, looking for their limo.      DOWN THESTREET     Welles is seated in his parked rental car, raises a CAMERA     with TELEPHOTO LENS: whir, CLICK, whir, CLICK, whir, CLICK...     Welles lowers the camera, letting out a yawn.      INT.  AIRPLANE,COACH -- NIGHT      The familiar DRONE of flight.  Welles is shoehorned into his     aisle seat, using tiny utensils to eat his tiny meal.     An OLDER WOMAN arrives in the aisle.  Welles picks up his     tray, closeshis tray table, unbuckling his seatbelt,     struggling to get up... finally successful, balancing his     tray, letting the woman in to the window seat.                              OLDER WOMAN                  Thankyou.      Welles nods, forcing a smile, sitting back down.  He returns     to toiling over his miniature supper.      EXT.  HARRISBURG INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT -- NIGHT      Welles' AIRPLANE ROARS down witha SCREECH, landing lights     gleaming.  The airport is small, relatively isolated.     TITLE:      Harrisburg, Pennsylvania     INT.  HARRISBURG INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT -- NIGHT     Passengersarrive.  Welles is with them, searching the few     PEOPLE waiting in the terminal hallway.  Welles smiles...     Welles' wife, AMY, smiles when she sees him.  She's plain     and pretty, holding one hand on a BABYSTROLLER beside her.     Welles comes to her, embracing her, appreciating her.                             AMY                 Welcome home.                             WELLES                 Do you know how much Imissed you?     They kiss, but Amy pulls away, sniffs him.                             AMY                  What's this... have you been                 smoking... ?                              WELLES                 Smoking?  I'm not smoking.                              AMY                  Your clothing reeks of it.                              WELLES                  You know, Amy, I've beensitting                 around in bars and everywhere                 following this guy... I mean, is                 this what I get first thing?  Before                 you even "hello," you accuse me... ?                             AMY                 I'm not accusing you...                              WELLES                  Well, I'm not smoking, okay?                              AMY                  Okay, I believe you.                             WELLES                  We've been all through that.  I've                 been on my best behavior.     Welles bends to the stroller, picks up his infant daughter,     CINDY, and hoists her in theair, overjoyed.                              WELLES                  Hello, pumpkin-head, did you miss                 me?  I sure missed you...      He kisses the happy child, holding her in one arm.                             WELLES                  Let's get my bags and get the hell                 out of here.      Welles pulls Amy close and kisses her again, leads the way.     Amy follows, pushing the stroller.                             AMY                  How's the detective business?                             WELLES                  Business was fine.  I'll tell you                 what, you couldn't pay me enoughto                 live down there.                              AMY                  You better not be smoking, that's                 all I can say.                              WELLES                  Honey, I'm not,please...      Amy takes Welles hand, smiling at him.      INT.  WELLES' HOUSE, BEDROOM -- NIGHT     Welles and Amy make love in the darkness.  Standard,     missionary position sex, little passion.  Theyslow to a     finish, uneventfully, holding each other.  Their breathing     quiets.  Their daughter CINDY can be HEARD CRYING elsewhere.     Welles kisses his wife again, rolls off of her and sits on     the edge of thebed.  Amy covers herself.                              AMY                 I love you.                             WELLES                 I love you.      He looks towards her in the dark.  He gets up, gets a towel     from thebathroom and wraps it around him.      INT.  WELLES' HOUSE, BABY'S ROOM -- NIGHT      Cindy's crying.  Welles enters, goes to lean into the crib.                             WELLES                  What's allthe trouble, Cinderella?                 What are you crying about, huh?      He lifts and cradles Cindy, comforting her.      EXT.  HARRISBURG CITYSCAPE -- ESTABLISHING --DAY      A small city of moderatearchitecture facing the Susquehanna.     INT.  OFFICE -- DAY      An old money office with windows over the river.  A well-to-     do POLITICIAN looks unhappily through PHOTOS on his desk.     Welles sits bythe Pennsylvania state flag, watching.     PHOTOS show the Young Republican and Gaudy Woman in Miami:     leaving the Art Deco hotel, the Discotheque, a restaurant...                             WELLES                 Your son-in-law dealt with the dry                 cleaning franchise during the day,                 saw that woman every night.                        (clears his throat)                  The specifics are in the report,and                 information about the woman.  It's                 unpleasant, I know.  I apologize...                              POLITICIAN                  None too discreet, is he?                              WELLES                 No, sir, he is not.                              POLITICIAN                  He's an imbecile.  I tried to warn                 my daughter, but what can you do?      The politician shakes his head indisgust.  Welles rises.                              WELLES                  The um... you'll find my invoice in                 the envelope. If that's all...                             POLITICIAN                  Yes, MisterWelles, thank you.                              WELLES                  Certainly, Senator.  If I can ever                 be of further assistance.     Welles leaves, glances back, shuts the door.      EXT.  HARRISBURGSTREETS -- DAY      Welles drives his plain Ford past the CAPITAL BUILDING.      EXT.  HARRISBURG, BRIDGE -- DAY      Welles' car crosses the Susquehanna, leaving the city.      EXT.  WELLES'HOUSE, BACKYARD -- DAY      Sunny day.  Welles wears tan khakis, T-shirt and fishing     cap, mowing his lawn with his ROARING lawnmower.  Welles'     yard is modest, surrounding his modest split levelsuburban     one in a neighborhood of similar homes and similar yards.     Welles turns the lawnmower, stopping to mop his brow.  One     of his neighbors is repainting a back porch.  The neighbor     waves.  Welleswaves, resumes mowing.      INT.  BOWLING ALLEY -- NIGHT     MUSIC'S LOUD.  League Night.  Every lane full.  Welles is     with his team in BOWLING SHIRTS.  Welles hoists his ball,     preparing tobowl.  He takes three steps, releases...     Down the lane, PINS SCATTER.  One pin remains standing.     Welles balls up his fists and curses, walks back towards his     rowdy, mocking teammates.  He shouts back atthem, laughing,     grabbing his beer and drinking, waiting at the ball return.      INT.  WELLES' HOUSE, KITCHEN -- NIGHT      Dinner.  Welles and Amy eat at the kitchen table with Cindy     in a highchair.  Amy feeds Cindy between bites.  Welles is     still in his league shirt.                              AMY                  You think you'll have time for the                 water heater thisweekend?                             WELLES                  Sure.  I'll call the guy.                              AMY                  You're not using the same guy who                 tried to fix it?                             WELLES                  I'm not using him again for                 anything.  He was worthless.                        (eating)                 You have bridge here Saturday?                              AMY                 Betty's out of town so we're playing                 next week.      Welles nods, eating.  He watches Amy feed Cindy.  The PHONE     starts RINGING.  Welles goes to answer it.                             WELLES                        (into PHONE)                  Hello.  Yes... could you hold on a                 minute...?     Welles hands the phone to Amy, pats Cindy's head as he heads     downstairs,


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<TT><FONTSIZE=-1></TT><TT>CUT FROM BLACK</TT><TT><FONTSIZE=-1>TITLE:</TT><TT> FIN</TT><TT>EXTERIOR - LA - DAY</TT><TT><FONTSIZE=-1>Fin of red 1957 Chevy Impala convertible driving </TT><TT>somewhere in the West. A car passes going the other </TT><TT><FONTSIZE=-1>way.</TT><TT>TITLE:</TT><TT> PLACE: Los Angeles</TT><FONTSIZE=-1><TT>MUSIC:</TT><TT> Shadowy Men On A Shadowy Planet "GoodCop,</TT><TT>Bad Cop."</TT><FONTSIZE=-1><TT>EXTERIOR - LA - DAY</TT><TT>POV driving on freeway in rain.</TT><FONTSIZE=-1><TT>EXTERIOR - LA - DAY</TT><TT>People with umbrellas standing on corner.</TT><FONTSIZE=-1><TT>EXTERIOR - LA - DAY</TT><TT>People with umbrella walking over bridge.</TT><FONTSIZE=-1><TT>EXTERIOR - LA - DAY</TT><TT>People walk across downtown intersection with </TT><TT><FONTSIZE=-1>umbrellas,</TT> <TT>bus in background.</TT><TT>EXTERIOR - LA - DAY</TT><TT><FONTSIZE=-1>Rain and shadow on pavement.</TT><TT>EXTERIOR - LA - DAY</TT><TT>LA river wide, medium,close. We see graffiti </TT><TT>swamped by high water.</TT><TT>EXTERIOR - LA -DAY</TT><TT>Large man walking with umbrella.</TT><TT>WE HEAR: THUNDER</TT><TT>MUSIC STOPS</TT><TT> FIRSTWOMAN</TT><TT> I've been here one year and I've lived </TT><TT> through an earthquake, fires, floods...</TT><FONTSIZE=-1><TT> SECOND WOMAN</TT><TT> The rains...it just keeps coming...the </TT><TT> floods...the hillsides arecoming down... </TT><TT> you can't get to and from work and it's </TT><TT> just a mess.</TT><FONTSIZE=-1><TT>EXTERIOR - LA - DAY</TT><TT>People walking against high winds, umbrella reversed.</TT><FONTSIZE=-1><TT>EXTERIOR - LA - DAY</TT><TT>Family walking in the rain. Children protected by </TT><TT>plasticbags.</TT><TT> THIRD WOMAN</TT><TT> You survive by natural instincts,you </TT><TT> go with the flow.</TT><TT>SFX: THUNDER</TT><FONTSIZE=-1><TT>EXTERIOR - LA - DAY</TT><TT>Woman's foot stepping across swollen gutter.</TT><FONTSIZE=-1><TT>MUSIC RESTARTS</TT><TT>EXTERIOR - LA RIVER-DAY</TT><TT>Prow of buttress in rapids. The rains have stopped, </TT><TT>only the floods remain.</TT><FONTSIZE=-1><TT>EXTERIOR - BEACH - EVENING</TT><TT>Waves breaking on beach.</TT><FONTSIZE=-1><TT>EXTERIOR - OCEAN - NIGHT</TT><TT>Tanker at night.</TT><TT><FONTSIZE=-1>EXTERIOR - AIRPORT - NIGHT</TT><TT>Airplane lights come on.</TT><TT>EXTERIOR - OCEAN -NIGHT</TT><TT>Landing lights over water.</TT><TT>EXTERIOR - AIRPORT -NIGHT</TT><TT>Airplane landing at night.</TT><TT>SFX </TT><TT>jet passingoverhead.</TT><TT>EXTERIOR - LA - NIGHT</TT><TT>Camera pans over the city and over theocean.</TT><TT>EXTERIOR - LA - NIGHT</TT><TT>The panning city lights converge with a passingcar.</TT><TT>EXTERIOR - LA - NIGHT</TT><TT>It is TONY, a handsome man in his 30's, driving on</TT><TT>Melrose. He approaches an intersection that is </TT><TT>blocked by a truck. He flashes his headlights </TT><TT><FONTSIZE=-1>signaling to the truck to move and let him by but </TT><TT>the truck stops. TONY is stuck.</TT><TT><FONTSIZE=-1>EXTERIOR - LA -DAY</TT><TT>ALLEN, a stout comedian, at a temp job, answering </TT><TT>phones.</TT><FONTSIZE=-1><TT> TALK SHOW HOST (V.O.)</TT><TT> And we're back with "Interpreting</TT><TT> Your Dreams."  And I believe we </TT><TT> have Allen in Hollywood on line...</TT><TT> 12. Hello Allen...are youthere? </TT><TT> Hello..?</TT><TT>ALLEN has the TALK SHOW HOST on hold so he doesn't </TT><TT><FONTSIZE=-1>hear</TT> <TT>her.</TT><TT>ALLEN</TT><TT> Okay...hold on. Yeah I'll take care of </TT><TT> you in a second...I'm transferring </TT><TT> youover..</TT><TT> TALK SHOW HOST</TT><TT> We are live on the air....Hello...?</TT><FONTSIZE=-1><TT> ALLEN</TT><TT> Hello.? Yeah okay I've got somebody else </TT><TT> on hold...I'm going to transferyou </TT><TT> over. It might be a second, just hold on.</TT><TT> TALK SHOWHOST</TT><TT> (aside) I'm on hold..</TT><TT>EXTERIOR - THE BIG ISLAND FROM ABOVE -DAY</TT><TT>The Big Island floats in sparkling light. WE HEAR a </TT><TT>radio show filtered through the small speaker of an</TT><TT>old radio.</TT><TT> </TT><TT> TALK SHOWHOST</TT><TT> Okay, we're going to have to go...</TT><TT> </TT><TT>ALLEN</TT><TT> Okay, oh doctor.</TT><TT> TALK SHOW HOST</TT><TT>Hello?</TT><TT>EXTERIOR - RANCH HOUSE FROM ABOVE - DAY</TT><TT>We see rooftops of ranch buildingsfrom high above.</TT><TT>We HEAR the sound of a plane flying overhead. We </TT><TT>HEAR ALLEN'S voice.</TT><FONTSIZE=-1><TT> ALLEN</TT><TT> Are you there?</TT><FONTSIZE=-1><TT>EXTERIOR - RANCH HOUSE - DAY</TT><TT>The Ranch House stands isolated in a dry island </TT><TT><FONT


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Kempton-Wace Letters, by Jack London and Anna StrunskyThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it,give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Kempton-Wace LettersAuthor: Jack London        Anna StrunskyRelease Date:February 27, 2010 [EBook #31422]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE KEMPTON-WACE LETTERS ***Produced by Curtis Weyant, Martin Pettit and the OnlineDistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)THE KEMPTON-WACE LETTERS       *       *       *       *       *JACKLONDON'S BOOKS"_He opened windows for them upon the splendour and the savagery, thepomp and the pitifulness that he had found in many corners of the earth.He saw that in every scene, in every human activitythere was an elementwhich lifted it into the region of the beautiful, and he made all hisreaders see it, whether he was learned or ignorant; cultivated or onlyjust able to read. Full justice has never been done to him.There was nosilver in his purse, only gold._"--Hamilton Fyfe in "The Daily Mail."The Valley of the Moon              7s. 6d. net and 4s. netJerry of the Islands                7s. 6d. net and 2s. 6d. netMichael, Brother ofJerry           7s. 6d. net and 2s. netHearts of Three                     6s. net and 2s. 6d. netIsland Tales                        7s. 6d. netThe Red One                         6s. net and 2s. netThe Acorn-Planter                   3s. 6d.netThe Little Lady of the Big House    6s. net and 2s. 6d. net[A]The Mutiny of the Elsinore       6s. net and 2s. netThe Strength of the Strong          6s. net and 1s. 6d. netThe Night-Born                      6s. net and 2s.net[A]A Daughter of the Snows          7s. 6d. net and 2s. 6d. netLost Face                           6s. net and 1s. 6d. netSouth Sea Tales                     6s. net and 1s. 6d. netWhen God Laughs                     6s. net and 1s.6d. net[A]Smoke Bellew                     6s. net and 1s. 6d. netThe Kempton-Wace Letters            2s. 6d. netSmoke and Shorty                    6s. and 2s. 6d. netThe Cruise of the Snark             2s. netThe Cruise of theDazzler           1s. 6d. netTurtles of Tasman                   1s. 6d. netBefore Adam                         1s. 6d. netThe Scarlet Plague                  1s. 6d. netThe God of His Fathers              1s. 6d.netAdventure                           2s. netThe House of Pride                  1s. 6d. netLove of Life                        1s. 6d. netA Son of the Sun                    6s. net and 2s. netAn Odyssey of the North             1s. 6d.netChildren of the Frost               1s. 6d. net[A]John Barleycorn                  6s. net and 2s. net[A]The Jacket                       6s. net and 2s. netRevolution                          2s. netWar of the Classes                  2s.netThe Human Drift                     6s. net and 2s. netThe Iron Heel                       2s. netThe Road                            2s. net[A] Films have been founded on these novelsMILLS & BOON, Ltd., 49 Rupert St., London,W.1.       *       *       *       *       *THE KEMPTON-WACE LETTERSBYJACK LONDONANDANNA STRUNSKY     "_And of naught else than Love would we           discourse._"--DANTE, Sonnet II.MILLS & BOON, LIMITED 49RUPERT STREET LONDON, W.1_Copyright in the United States of America, 1903, by the MacmillanCompany Printed in Great Britain by Love & Malcomson Ltd. London andRedhill._KEMPTON-WACE LETTERSIFROM DANEKEMPTON TO HERBERT WACELONDON,3 A QUEEN'S ROAD, CHELSEA, S.W.August 14, 19--.Yesterday I wrote formally, rising to the occasion like the conventionalhappy father rather than the man who believes in themiracle and livesfor it. Yesterday I stinted myself. I took you in my arms, glad of whatis and stately with respect for the fulness of your manhood. It isto-day that I let myself leap into yours in a passion of joy. I dwellonwhat has come to pass and inflate myself with pride in your fulfilment,more as a mother would, I think, and she your mother.But why did you not write before? After all, the great event was notwhen you found youroffer of marriage accepted, but when you found youhad fallen in love. Then was your hour. Then was the time forcongratulation, when the call was first sounded and the reveille of Timeand About fell upon your soul andthe march to another's destiny wasbegun. It is always more important to love than to be loved. I wish ithad been vouchsafed me to be by when your spirit of a sudden grewwilling to bestow itself without question or letor hope of return, whenthe self broke up and you grew fain to beat out your strength in praiseand service for the woman who was soaring high in the blue wastes. Youhave known her long, and you must have been herslong, yet no word ofher and of your love reached me. It was not kind to be silent.Barbara spoke yesterday of your fastidiousness, and we told each otherthat you had gained a triumph of happiness in your love, for youare notof those who cheat themselves. You choose rigorously, straining for theheart of the end as do all rigorists who are also hedonists. Because weare in possession of this bit of data as to your temperamental cosmoswecan congratulate you with the more abandon. Oh, Herbert, do you knowthat this is a rampant spring, and that on leaving Barbara I trampedout of the confines into the green, happier, it almost seems, than Ihaveever been? Do you know that because you love a woman and she lovesyou, and that because you are swept along by certain forces, that I amhappy and feel myself in sight of my portion of immortality on earth,farmore than because of my books, dear lad, far more?I wish I could fly England and get to you. Should I have a shade less ofyou than formerly, if we were together now? From your too much green ofwealth, a barrennessof friendship? It does not matter; what is her gaincannot be my loss. One power is mine,--without hindrance, in freedom andin right, to say to Ellen's son, "Godspeed!" to place Hester Stebbins'shand in his, and bidthem forth to the sunrise, into the glory of day!Ever your devoted father,DANE KEMPTON.IIFROM HERBERT WACE TO DANE KEMPTONTHE RIDGE,BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA.September 3, 19--.Here I am, back in the oldquarters once more, with the old afternoonclimb across the campus and up into the sky, up to the old rooms, theold books, and the old view. You poor fog-begirt Dane Kempton, could youbut have lounged with me onthe window couch, an hour past, and watchedthe light pass out of the day through the Golden Gate and the nightcreep over the Berkeley Hills and down out of the east! Why should youlinger on there in London town!We grow away from each other, itseems--you with your wonder-singing, I with my joyful science.Poesy and economics! Alack! alack! How did I escape you, Dane, when mindand mood you mastered me? The augurieswere fair. I, too, should havebeen a singer, and lo, I strive for science. All my boyhood was singing,what of you; and my father was a singer, too, in his own fine way. Dearto me is your likening of him toWaring.--"What's become of Waring?" He_was_ Waring. I can think of him only as one who went away, "chose landtravel or seafaring."Gwynne says I am sometimes almost a poet--Gwynne, you know, ArthurGwynne,who has come to live with me at The Ridge. "If it were not foryour dismal science," he is sure to add; and to fire him I lay it to thedefects of early training. I know he thinks that I never halfappreciated you, and that I donot appreciate you now. If you willrecollect, you praised his verses once. He cherishes that praise amongsthis sweetest treasures. Poor dear good old Gwynne, tender, sensitive,shrinking, with the face of a seraph andthe heart of a maid. Never weretwo men more incongruously companioned. I love him for himself. Hetolerates me, I do secretly believe, because of you. He longs to meetyou,--he knew you well through my father,--andwe often talk you over.Be sure at every opportunity I tear off your halo and trundle it about.Trust me, you receive scant courtesy.How I wander on. My pen is unruly after the long vacation; my thoughtyet wayward,what of the fever of successful wooing. And besides, ...how shall I say?... such was the gracious warmth of your letter, of bothyour letters, that I am at a loss. I feel weak, inadequate. It almostseems as though you hadmade a demand upon something that is not in me.Ah, you poets! It would seem your delight in my marriage were greaterthan mine. In my present mood, it is you who are young, you who love; Iwho have lived and amold.Yes, I am going to be married. At this present moment, I doubt not, amillion men and women are saying the same thing. Hewers of wood anddrawers of water, princes and potentates, shy-shrinking maidensandbrazen-faced hussies, all saying, "I am going to be married." And alllooking forward to it as a crisis in their lives? No. After all,marriage is the way of the world. Considered biologically, it is aninstitution necessary forthe perpetuation of the species. Why should itbe a crisis? These million men and women will marry, and the work ofthe world go on just as it did before. Shuffle them about, and the workof the world would yet goon.True, a month ago it did seem a crisis. I wrote you as much. It did seema disturbing element in my life-work. One cannot view with equanimitythat which appears to be totally disruptive of one's dear little systemofliving. But it only appeared so; I lacked perspective, that was all.As I look upon it now, everything fits well and all will run smoothly Iam sure.You know I had two years yet to work for my Doctorate. I still havethem. Asyou see, I am back to the old quarters, settled down in the oldgroove, hammering away at the old grind. Nothing is changed. And besidesmy own studies, I have taken up an assistant instructorship in theDepartment ofEconomics. It is an ambitious course, and an importantone. I don't know how they ever came to confide it to me, or how I foundthe temerity to attempt it,--which is neither here nor there. It is allagreed. Hester is asensible girl.The engagement is to be long. I shall continue my career as charted. Twoyears from now, when I shall have become a Doctor of Social Sciences(and candidate for numerous other things), I shall alsobecome abenedict. My marriage and the presumably necessary honeymoon chime inwith the summer vacation. There is no disturbing element even there. Oh,we are very practical, Hester and I. And we are both strongenough tolead each our own lives.Which reminds me that you have not asked about her. First, let me shockyou--she, too, is a scientist. It was in my undergraduate days that wemet, and ere the half-hour struck wewere quarrelling felicitously overWeismann and the neo-Darwinians. I was at Berkeley at the time, acocksure junior; and she, far maturer as a freshman, was at Stanford,carrying more culture with her into heruniversity than is given theaverage student to carry out.Next, and here your arms open to her, she is a poet. Pre-eminently sheis a poet--this must be always understood. She is the greater poet, Itake it, in thisdawning twentieth century, because she is a scientist;not in spite of being a scientist as some would hold. How shall Idescribe her? Perhaps as a George Eliot, fused with an ElizabethBarrett, with a hint of Huxley and atrace of Keats. I may say she issomething like all this, but I must say she is something other anddifferent. There is about her a certain lightsomeness, a glow or flashalmost Latin or oriental, or perhaps Celtic. Yes, thatmust beit--Celtic. But the high-stomached Norman is there and the stubbornSaxon. Her quickness and fine audacity are checked and poised, as itwere, by that certain conservatism which gives stability to purposeandpower to achievement. She is unafraid, and wide-looking and far-looking,but she is not over-looking. The Saxon grapples with the Celt, and theNorman forces the twain to do what the one would not dream of doingandwhat the other would dream beyond and never do. Do you catch me? Hermost salient charm, is I think, her perfect poise, her exquisiteadjustment.Altogether she is a most wonderful woman, take my word for it.And afterall she is described vicariously. Though she has published nothing andis exceeding shy, I shall send you some of her work. There will you findand know her. She is waiting for stronger voice and sings softly asyet.But hers will be no minor note, no middle flight. She is--well, she isHester. In two years we shall be married. Two years, Dane. Surely youwill be with us.One thing more; in your letter a certain undertone which Icould notfail to detect. A shade less of me than formerly?--I turn and look intoyour face--Waring's handiwork you remember--his painter's fancy of youin those golden days when I stood on the brink of the world, andyoushowed me the delights of the world and the way of my feet therein. So Iturn and look, and look and wonder. _A shade less_ of me, of you? Poesyand economics! Where lies the blame?HERBERT.IIIFROM DANEKEMPTON TO HERBERT WACELONDON,September 30, 19--.It is because you know not what you do that I cannot forgive you. Couldyou know that your letter with its catalogue of advantages andarrangements mustoffend me as much as it belies (let us hope) you andthe woman of your love, I would pardon the affront of it upon us all,and ascribe the unseemly want of warmth to reserve or to the sadnesswhich grips the heart whenjoy is too palpitant. But something warns methat you are unaware of the chill your words breathe, and that is alapse which it is impossible to meet with indulgence."He does not love her," was Barbara's quick decision,and she laid theopen letter down with a definiteness which said that you, too, are laidout and laid low. Your sister's very wrists can be articulate. However,I laughed at her and she soon joined me. We do not mean tobeextravagant with our fears. Who shall prescribe the letters of lovers totheir sisters and foster-fathers? Yet there are some things theirletters should be incapable of saying, and amongst them that love is nota crisisand a rebirth, but that it is common as the commonplace, a hitor miss affair which "shuffling" could not affect.Barbara showed me your note to her. "Had I written like this of myselfand Earl--""You could not," Iobjected."Then Herbert should have been as little able to do it," she deducedwith emphasis. Here I might have told her that men and women are racesapart, but no one talks cant to Barbara. So I did not console her,andit stands against you in our minds that on this critical occasion youhave baffled us with coldness.An absence of six years, broken into twice by a brief few months, mustwork changes. When Barbara called your letterunnatural, she forgot howlittle she knows what is natural to you. She and I have been wont topredetermine you, your character, foothold, and outlook, by--say by thefact that you knew your Wordsworth and that youknew him without beingable to take for yourself his austere peace. Youth which lives by hopeis riven by unrest.     "I made no vows; vows were made for me,     Bond unknown to me was given       That I should be,else sinning gently,     A dedicated spirit."That pale sunrise seen from Mt. Tamalpais and your voice vibrant tofierceness on the "else sinning gently"--to me the splendour of rose onpiled-up ridges of mist spoke all foryou, so dear have you always been.It rested on the possible wonder of your life. It threw you into thescintillant Dawn with an abandon meet to a son of Waring.Tell me, do you still read your Wordsworth on your knees?I am bent withregret for the time when your mind had no surprises for me, when thedays were flushed halcyon with my hope in you. I resent your developmentif it is because of it that you speak prosaically of a prosaicmarriageand of a honeymoon simultaneous with the Degree. I think you are toowell pleased with the simultaneousness.Yet the fact of the letter is fair. It cannot be that the soul of it isnot. Hester Stebbins is a poet. Ilean forward and think it out as Idid some days ago when the news came. I conjure up the look of love. Ifthe woman is content (how much more than content the feeling she boundswith in knowing you hers as she isyours), what better test that all iswell? I conjure up the look of love. It is thus at meeting and thus atparting. Even here, to-night, when all is chill and hard to understand,I catch the flash and the warmth, and what Isee restores you to me, buthow deep the plummet of my mind needed to sound before it reached you.It is because you permitted yourself to speak when silence had expressedyou better.Show me the ideally realHester Stebbins, the spark of fire which isshe. The storms have not broken over her head. She will laugh and makepoetry of her laughter. If before she met you she wept, that, too, willhelp the smiling. There is laughterwhich is the echo of a Misereresobbed by the ages. Men chuckle in the irony of pain, and they smilecold, lessoned smiles in resignation; they laugh in forgetfulness andthey laugh lest they die of sadness. A shrug of theshoulders, awidening of the lips, a heaving forth of sound, and the life is saved.The remedy is as drastic as are the drugs used for epilepsy, which inquelling the spasm bring idiocy to the patient. If we are made idiotsbyour laughter, we are paying dearly for the privilege of continuing inlife.Hester shall laugh because she is glad and must tell her joy, and shewill not lose it in the telling. Greet her for me and hasten to proveyourself,for     "The Poet, gentle creature that he is,     Hath like the Lover, his unruly times;     His fits when he is neither sick nor well,     Though no distress be near him but his own     Unmanageable thoughts."You will judgeby this letter that I am neither sick nor well, and thatI reach for a distress which is not near. If I were Merchant rather thanPoet, it would be otherwise with me.DANE.IVFROM HERBERT WACE TO DANE KEMPTONTHERIDGE,BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA.October 27, 19--.Do I still read my Wordsworth on my knees? Well, we may as well have itout. I have foreseen this day so long and shunned it that now I meet italmost with extendedhands. No, I do not read my Wordsworth on my knees.My mind is filled with other things. I have not the time. I am not theHerbert Wace of six years gone. It is fair that you should know this;fair, also, that you shouldknow the Herbert Wace of six years gone wasnot quite the lad you deemed him.There is no more pathetic and terrible thing than the prejudice of love.Both you and I have suffered from it. Six years ago, ay, andbeforethat, I felt and resented the growing difference between us. When underyour spell, it seemed that I was born to lisp in numbers and devotemyself to singing, that the world was good and all of it fit forsinging. Butaway from you, even then, doubts faced me, and I knew invague fashion that we lived in different worlds. At first in vaguefashion, I say; and when with you again, your spell dominated me and Icould not question. Youwere true, you were good, I argued, all that waswonderful and glorious; therefore, you were also right. You mastered mewith your charm, as you were wont to master those who loved you.But there came times whenyour sympathy failed me and I stood alone onoutlooks I had achieved alone. There was no response from you. I couldnot hear your voice. I looked down upon a real world; you were caught upin a beautiful cloudlandand shut away from me. Possibly it was becauselife of itself appealed to you, while to me appealed the mechanics oflife. But be it as it may, yours was a world of ideas and fancies, minea world of things and facts.Entershere the prejudice of love. It was the lad that discovered ourdifference and concealed; it was the man who was blind and could notdiscover. There we erred, man and boy; and here, both men now, we makeall wellagain.Let me be explicit. Do you remember the passion with which I read the"Intellectual Development of Europe?" I understood not the tithe of it,but I was thrilled. My common sense was thrilled, I suppose; but itwasall very joyous, gripping hold of the tangible world for the first time.And when I came to you, warm with the glow of adventure, you lookedblankly, then smiled indulgently and did not answer. You regardedmyardour complacently. A passing humour of adolescence, you thought; and Ithought: "Dane does not read his Draper on his knees." Wordsworth wasgreat to me; Draper was great also. You had no patience with him,and Iknow now, as I felt then, your consistent revolt against hismaterialistic philosophy.Only the other day you complained of a letter of mine, calling it coldand analytical. That I should be cold and analytical despite alltheprodding and pressing and moulding I have received at your hands, andthe hands of Waring, marks only more clearly our temperamentaldifference; but it does not mark that one or the other of us is less adedicated


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                         ARSENIC AND OLD LACE                              Written by                     Julius J. & Philip G.Epstein                        Adapted from the play by                           Joseph Kesselring   CREDITS   Credits roll, in white letters, on several funny cartoons, all of   them about witches and witchcraft (a caldronover a fire, with two   witches on either side of it - A close-up of one of the witches -   A witches falling down from the sky on her broomstick, and loosing   her hat in the fall - A furious black cat spitting at anowl   seated on a branch - A carafe with two glasses, actually a direct   reference to the film - An Halloween pumpkin pressing her two   forefingers in its ears, with music notes around it - Black bats   flying over avillage).   BROOKLYN - GENERAL OVERVIEW - EXTERIOR DAY   A general overview of Brooklyn, near New York, seen from the roof   of a very high building. Written in white letters on this   overview, thefollowing words :                         This is a Hallowe'en                       tale of Brooklyn, where                        anything can happen--                         and it usually does.   Then :                           At 3 P.M. onthis                         particular day, this                             was happening-   Several white circles move on the screen, then the whole screen is   covered by a huge base ball, with «Brooklyn» written on it in   blackletters.   BASEBALL GAME - SPECTATORS - EXTERIOR DAY   Close-up of the face of man, screaming :          BASEBALL FAN          I'll knock your block off, you big stiff ! You're a bum !   The cameramoves away, so we can see the other baseball spectators   behind the first one.   BASEBALL FIELD - EXTERIOR DAY   General view of a baseball field, where a game is being played.   Follow several very quicksequences (one or two seconds each) : A   general view of the spectators. Then a player throwing a ball.   Then a very excited brass band playing. Then a few very excited   spectators. Then another player throwing aball.   Finally we see a batter missing his ball. We hear the Umpire,   standing behind the catcher and heavily covered with a protection   suit, yelling :       THE UMPIRE       Strike ! You're out !   The batter,who missed the ball, drops his bat on the ground and   comes back to the Umpire. He tears the Umpire helmet and mask   away, and gives him a good punch in the nose. The Umpire falls on   the ground. The catcherthen hits the batter. The Umpire rises   slowly from the ground.   Several very quick sequences : The ball-thrower drops his glove   and runs to the fight. Then several excited spectators stand up to   join the fight.Several player, who were waiting for their turn to   go on the field, also run to the fight. Then a view of the fight,   where all the players are hitting each other. Then the popcorn   seller, dropping his basket to join thefight. Then spectators   jumping over the balustrades to join the fight. Then another view   of the players fighting. Then a final view of the Umpire, laying   on the field and leaning on one elbow, and quietly munchingsome   food.   NEW YORK - A BRIDGE - EXTERIOR DAY   We see a large view of a bridge with a white boat passing   underneath. Written in large white letters on the screen, the   words :                      Whileat the same time                     across the river in the                        UNITED STATE PROPER                      there was a romance in                              the air.MARRIAGE LICENSE BUREAU - INTERIORDAYClose-up on the sign «MARRIAGE LICENSE BUREAU», with peoplepassing underneath.       AN EXCITED GIRL VOICE       Elmer, here it is.       A MORE QUIET MALE VOICE       I knew you'dfind it.       ANOTHER MALE VOICE       Boy, I could sure use a drink.The camera gets down from the sign to floor level. Two journalistsare approaching, one equipped with a camera.       THEPHOTOGRAPHER       I wonder if any big shots are getting married today ?They stop at the door of the room.Larger view of the room, where several people are, either standingin a queue, either sitting at a tableand filling forms, eitherchatting in groups of two or threeBack to the two journalists still standing a the door.       THE OTHER JOURNALIST       Looks like the same suckers get married every day.He looksaround for a few second, then starts to move away.       THE OTHER JOURNALIST       Come on.The photographer makes him come back. He points to someone in theroom.       THEPHOTOGRAPHER       Hey, the guy with the cheaters.In a line of people queueing in front of a counter, we seeMortimer Brewster, with a hat and a pair of large dark glasses. Heturns around and notices the twojournalists looking at him. Heraises the collar of his black coat to try to hide his face. Thegirl in front of him turns around to look at him. She has blondecurly hair and wears a hat with a strange white feather. SheisElaine Harper. With both his hands, Mortimer turns her face backtoward the counter.Back to the two journalists at the door of the room.       THE OTHER JOURNALIST       Now what's he hiding from ?Hestarts moving to get a better look at Mortimer.Mortimer moves in front of Elaine, who smiles.The two journalists are now in the room, and they look atMortimer.       THE OTHER JOURNALIST       Hey, isn't thatMortimer Brewster?       THE PHOTOGRAPHER       Mortimer Brewster, the dramatic critic ?Mortimer looks very embarrassed.Back to the two journalists.       THE OTHER JOURNALIST       No, it's nothim. But what a scoop it would be ! The guy       who wrote The Bachelor's Bible finally getting hooked       himself. Nope. It's too good to be true. Come on, let's       snap the mayor in his new fire helmet and gohome.       THE PHOTOGRAPHER       Hey, let's stick around, and see who the guy is.Back to the line of people waiting in front of the counter. Themarriage clerk is standing behind a set of metal bars. A coupleofpeople leaves the counter. It's now Mortimer and Elaine's turn.The marriage clerk sings :       THE CLERK       "Two by two they come and go. Hip hip hig hay !"He smiles to Mortimer and Elaine.       THECLERK       Good morning, children. Your name, please ?       ELAINE       Elaine Harper.She spoke in a very soft voice. The clerk put his hand around hisear.        THE CLERK        Speak a littlelouder.She speaks louder.       ELAINE       Elaine Harper.       THE CLERK       Thank you. Yours ?Mortimer comes very close to the bars above the counterandwhispers.       MORTIMER       Mortimer Brewster.The clerk puts his hand back around his ear.The two journalists are straining their own ears to be able tounderstand Mortimer's name       THECLERK       How's that ?Mortimer raises his glasses, but still whispers.       MORTIMER       Mortimer Brewster.       THE CLERK       Speak up, sonny. There's nothing to be afraid of.Mortimerbends down, putting his chin at the counter level. Thenhe stands up again, and opens the gate in front of the clerk. Heknocks his head on the bar above the gate. He straightens his hat,and brings his face close to theclerk's one. He still whispers.       MORTIMER       I want to keep this undercover.       THE CLERK       Love her ? But of course you love her. You're going to       marry her, aren't you?       MORTIMER       No-no, you don't understand. Come here, come.With his finger, he signals the clerk to come close to him.       MORTIMER       You see, I don't want this to get out for a while.I'm       Mortimer Brewster.       THE CLERK       You're who ?Mortimer stops controlling himself and starts yelling       MORTIMER       Mortimer Brew...He doesn't finish telling his name, takes Elaine'shand, and runsoutside the room, dragging Elaine behind him.The two journalists react to the news.       THE OTHER JOURNALIST       That's him !They start running after Mortimer.CORRIDOR OUTSIDETHE MARRIAGE BUREAU - INTERIOR DAYStill dragging Elaine, Mortimer runs in the corridor.       THE OTHER JOURNALIST       (voice over)       Mister Brewster !Mortimer pushes Elaine into a telephonebooth and enters behindher. There is already a man in the booth who is using the phone.With three people in the booth, Mortimer can hardly close the doorbehind him.The two journalists runs in thecorridor.       THE OTHER JOURNALIST       Oh, Mister Brewster !But they pass the booth without noticing that Mortimer is inside.In the booth, the man, still holding the phone receiver, tries toprotest theintrusion.       THE MAN ON THE PHONE       Now, look...Mortimer takes the receiver from him and speaks into it.       MORTIMER       Goodbye, dear.He hangs up the receiver, and then pushesviolently the manoutside the booth. The man looks very angry, but doesn't try tocome back in the booth.In the booth, a very exciter Mortimer is talking to Elaine.       MORTIMER       Don't you understand ?How can I marry you ? Me, the symbol       of bachelorhood. I've sneered at every love scene in every       play. I've written four million words against marriage !       Not only hooked, but to a minister's daughter, andnot only       a minister's daughter but a girl from Brooklyn. And look at       the way you look ! What is that sort of contraption you've       got there ?He taps on a pin on the lapel of Elaine'sjacket.       ELAINE       That's a pin I borrowed from your aunts. You know what       they're saying, "Something borrowed..."       MORTIMER       Yeah, I know that "Something borrowed, somethingblue."       Old, new. Rice and old shoes. Carry you over the threshold.       Niagara Falls. All that silly tripe I made fun for years.       Is this what I've come to ? I can't go through with it. I       won't marry you. Andthat's that.He takes his glasses off. Elaine whispers :       ELAINE       Yes, Mortimer.       MORTIMER       What do you mean, «Yes, Mortimer» ? Aren't you insulted ?       Aren't you going to cry ?Aren't you going to make a       scene ?       ELAINE       No, Mortimer.       MORTIMER       And don't «No, Mortimer» me, either ! Don't you see       marriage is a superstition. It's old-fashioned.It's...       a... a... Ohh !...He kisses her very passionately.He stops kissing her, and gets out of the booth, dragging herbehind him. They enter the marriage bureau.MARRIAGE LICENSE BUREAU - INTERIORDAYThey get back a the end of the line of people waiting to bemarried.The girl in front of Elaine winks to Elaine. Elaine winks back toher.A man in front of the girls turns toward Mortimer and smiles tohim, in aslightly idiotic way. Mortimer looks at him, a bitsurprised, and gives him a forced smile, showing his teeth.BROOKLYN - RESIDENTIAL DISTRICT - EXTERIOR DAYWe see a street in Brooklyn, in front of nicehouse. Written onthe screen in large white letters :                        And now, back to                     one of Brooklyn's most                      charming residential                           districts--BROOKLYN - CHURCHYARD