The ghouls

by Haining, Peter, comp

  The wretched simulacrum! We almost pity him. He threw up his arms with an expression of despair that went further than any of his previous manifestations towards vindicating his claims to be reckoned human: for perchance the only time since this so often empty and deceptive life of mortals began its course, an illusion had seen and fully recognized itself.

  Mother Rigby was seated by her kitchen hearth in the twilight of this eventful day, and had just shaken the ashes out of a new pipe, when she heard a hurried tramp along the road. Yet it did not seem so much the tramp of human footsteps as the clatter of sticks or the rattling of dry bones.

  "Ha!" thought the old witch, "what step is that? Whose skeleton is out of its grave now, I wonder?"

  A figure burst headlong into the cottage door. It was Feathertop! His pipe was still alight; the star still flamed upon his breast; the embroidery still glowed upon his garments; nor had he lost, in any degree or manner that could be estimated, the aspect that assimilated him with our mortal brotherhood. But yet, in some indescribable way (as is the case with all that has deluded us when once found out), the poor reality was felt beneath the cunning artifice.

  "What has gone wrong?" demanded the witch. "Did yonder sniffling hypocrite thrust my darling from his door? The villain! I'll set twenty fiends to torment him till he offer thee his daughter on his bended knees!"

  "No, mother," said Feathertop, despondingly; "it was not that."

  "Did the girl scorn my precious one?" asked Mother Rigby, her fierce eyes glowing like two coals of Tophet. "Ill cover her face with pimples! Her nose shall be as red as the coal in thy pipe! Her front teeth shall drop out! In a week hence she shall not be worth thy having!"

  "Let her alone, mother," answered poor Feathertop; "the girl was half won; and methinks a kiss from her sweet lips might have made me altogether human. But," he added, after a brief pause and then a howl of self-contempt, "IVe seen myself, mother! I've seen myself for the wretched, ragged, empty thing I am! I'll exist no longer!"

  Snatching the pipe from his mouth, he flung it with all his might against the chimney, and at the same instant sank upon the floor a medley of straw and tattered garments, with some sticks protruding from the heap and a shrivelled pumpkin in the midst. The eyeholes were now lustreless; but the rudely carved gap, that just before had been a mouth, still seemed to twist itself into a despairing grin, and was so far human.

  "Poor fellow!" quoth Mother Rigby, with a rueful glance at the relics of her ill-fated contrivance. "My poor, dear, pretty Feathertop! There are thousands upon thousands of coxcombs and charlatans in the world, made up of just such a jumble of worn-out, forgotten and good-for-nothing trash as he was! Yet they live in fair repute, and never see themselves for what they are. And why should my poor puppet be the only one to know himself and perish for it?"

  While thus muttering, the witch had filled a fresh pipe of tobacco, and held the stem between her fingers, as doubtful whether to thrust it into her own mouth or Feathertop's.

  "Poor Feathertop!" she continued. "I could easily give him another chance and send him forth again tomorrow. But no; his feelings are too tender, his sensibilities too deep. He seems to have too much heart to busde for his own advantage in such an empty and heartless world. Well! well! I'll make a scarecrow of him after all. Tis an innocent and a useful vocation, and will suit my darling well; and if each of his hu-

  man brethren had as fit a one, 'twould be the better for mankind; and as for this pipe of tobacco, I need it more than he/'

  So saying Mother Rigby put the stem between her lips. "Dickon!" cried she, in her high, sharp tone, "another coal for my pipe!"

  PHANTOM OF THE OPERA

  GASTON LEROUX

  (Universal: 1925 et al)

  Phantom of the Opera was unquestionably the finest horror film made during the silent era. Although it has since been remade twice with all the benefits (some would say') of sound and Technicolor, the quality of the original and the truly brilliant acting of Lon Chaney (the first great international horror star after the German Werner Krauss in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari filmed in 1919) make it stand out as a landmark in the history of the cinema, not merely of the horror film genre.

  The near-perfection of Chaney's performance as the disfigured dweller in the Paris Opera House was achieved through much hardship and personal suffering. To twist his face into a horrible death mask he used pieces of wire to distend his eyes and expose his gums; indeed rumours were prevalent at the time of the shooting that the star looked so hideous that it was doubtful whether the finished picture would ever be shown. But it was shown, although it suffered a little because of certain disagreements between actor and director, and it proved to be a masterpiece.

  The picture was based on a very popular tale by the Frenchman, Gaston Leroux, which was first published in Paris in 1908. Much admired at the time, it has since, inexplicably, remained out of print for many years. Since the original story is stylistically somewhat pedestrian and long-winded, this special abridgement has been prepared which remains not only faithful to the original, but also emphasises the drama of the film—a film which in my opinion well merits the claim made for it by Carlos Clarens in his book, An Illustrated History of the Horror Film, that "Consciously or not, the influence of the Phantom of the Opera has been felt in most horror efforts ever since"

  IT was the evening on which Messieurs Debienne and Poligny, the managers of the Opera, were giving a farewell gala performance to mark their retirement. Suddenly, the dressing room of La Sorelli, one of the principal dancers, was invaded by half a dozen young ladies of the ballet who rushed in amid great confusion, shrieking with terror. Sorelli looked around angrily as little Jammes—the girl with the tip-tilted nose and rose-red cheeks—exclaimed in a trembling voice, "It's the ghost!"

  Sorelli shuddered when she heard the girl speak of the ghost—for she was superstitious about ghosts in general and the Opera ghost in particular. At once she asked for details, "Have you seen him?"

  "As plainly as I see you now!" moaned little Jammes, dropping into a chair.

  Thereupon another girl added, "If that's the ghost, he's very ugly!"

  "Oh, yes!" cried the chorus of ballet girls.

  And they all began to talk at once. The ghost had suddenly appeared to them clad in dress-clothes, in the passage, without their knowing where he came from. He seemed to have loomed through the wall.

  "Pooh!" said one of the girls who had more or less kept her head. "You see the ghost everywhere!"

  And it was true. For several months there had been nothing discussed at the Opera but this ghost in dress-clothes who stalked about the building like a shadow, who spoke to nobody and who vanished as soon as he was seen. All the girls pretended to have met this supernatural being more or less often, yet who had actually seen him? You meet so many men in dress-clothes at the Opera who are not ghosts. But this dress-suit had a peculiarity of its own—it clothed a skeleton. At least, so the ballet girls said. And it had a death's-head.

  The truth is that this was the description given by Joseph Buquet, the chief scene-shifter, who really had seen the ghost. He had run up against him on the little staircase by the footlights which leads straight down to the cellars. He had seen him for a second—for the ghost had fled—and to any one who cared to listen to him he told this story:

  "He is extraordinarily thin and his dress-coat hangs on a skeleton frame. His eyes are so deep set that you can hardly see the pupils. All you see is two big black holes, as in a dead man's skull. His skin, which is stretched across his bones like a drumhead, is a dirty yellow. He has hardly any nose to speak of and the only hair he has is three or four long dark locks on his forehead and behind the ears."

  Sensible men, hearing the story, began by saying that Joseph Buquet

  had been the victim of a joke played by one of his assistants. And then there came an incident so curious and so inexplicable that the very shrewdest people began to feel uneasy.

  A fireman nam
ed Pampin, who had gone to make a round of inspection in the cellars, suddenly reappeared on the stage, pale and trembling. He had seen a head of fire without a body coming towards him. After that, could anyone be sure . . . ?

  "It's the ghost!" cried little Jammes again and then, flinging herself terrified into the furthest corner of the wall, she whispered:

  "Listen!"

  Everybody seemed to hear a rustling outside the door like light silk gliding along the panel. Then it stopped.

  Sorelli tried to show more pluck than the others. She went up to the door and, in a quavering voice, asked: "Who's there?"

  But nobody answered. Then, feeling all eyes upon her, she made an effort to look courageous, and said very loudly: "Is there anyone behind the door?"

  No reply. She flung the door open and looked into the passage. A gas flame cast a red and sinister light into the surrounding darkness, but the passage was empty.

  Sorelli shut the door and turned to the girls, "Come children," she said, "pull yourselves together! I daresay no one has ever seen the ghost."

  "Yes, yes, we saw him just now!" the girls cried. "He had his death's-head and his dress-coat, just the same as when Joseph Buquet saw him!"

  "Joseph Buquet would do better to hold his tongue."

  "That's Ma's opinion," said Meg, lowering her voice, "Ma says the ghost doesn't like being talked about."

  "And why does your mother say so?"

  "Because . . . because . . . nothing . . ."

  This reticence exasperated the curiosity of the young ladies, who crowded round Meg, begging her to explain herself.

  "I swore not to tell!" gasped Meg.

  But they left her no peace and promised to keep the secret, until Meg, burning to say all she knew, began, with her eyes fixed on the door:

  "Well, it's because of the private box. . ."

  "What private box?"

  "The ghosts box! It's Box 5, you know, the box on the grand tier, next to the left-hand stage-box/'

  "Oh, nonsense!"

  "I tell you it is . . . Ma has charge of it. But you swear you won't say a word?"

  "Of course, of course!"

  "Well, that's the ghost's box ... No one has had it for over a month, except the ghost, and orders have been given at the box-office that it must never be sold."

  "And does the ghost really come there?"

  "Yes."

  "Then somebody does come?"

  "Why, no!. . . The Ghost comes, but there is nobody there."

  "Giry, child, what are you saying!"

  Thereupon little Giry began to cry:

  "I ought to have held my tongue. If Ma ever got to know! . . . But it's true enough, Joseph Buquet had no business to talk of things that don't concern him ... it will bring him bad luck . . . Ma was saying so last night."

  There was a sound of heavy and hurried footsteps in the passage, and a breathless voice cried:

  "Cecile! Cecile! Are you there?"

  Sorelli opened the door. Thereupon a corpulent lady burst into the dressing-room and dropped groaning into a vacant armchair.

  "How awful!" she said. "J ose pn Buquet is dead! He was found hanging in the third-floor cellar!"

  "It's the ghost!" blurted little Giry.

  All around her, her panic-stricken companions repeated, under their breaths:

  "Yes, it must be the ghost!"

  The horrid news soon spread all over the Opera, for Joseph Buquet was very popular. The dressing-rooms emptied and the little ballet-girls made for the foyer through the ill-lit passages. On the first landing, Sorelli ran against the Comte de Chagny, who was coming upstairs. The count seemed greatly excited:

  "I was just coming to you," he said, taking off his hat. "Oh, Sorelli, what an evening! And Christine Daae: what a triumph!"

  They all rushed on to the foyer of the ballet, which was already full of people. The Comte de Chagny was right: no gala performance had ever equalled this. All the great composers of the day had conducted

  their own works in turn. Faure and Krauss had sung; and on that evening the young soprano Christine Daae had revealed her true self for the first time to the astonished and enthusiastic audience. She began by singing a few passages from Romeo and Juliet and those who heard her said that her voice in these passages was seraphic, but this was nothing to the superhuman notes that she gave forth in the prison scene and the final trio in Faust, which she sang in the place of La Carlotta, who was ill. No one had ever heard or seen anything like it.

  Christine Daae revealed a new Margarita that night, a Margarita of a splendour and radiance hitherto unsuspected. The whole house went mad, rising to its feet, shouting, cheering and clapping, while Christine sobbed and fainted in the arms of her fellow singers and had to be carried to her dressing-room. Till then, Christine Daae had played a good Siebel to Carlotta's rather too splendidly massive Margarita. And it had needed Carlotta's incomprehensible and inexcusable absence from this gala night for little Christine, at a moment's notice, to show all that she could do in a part of the programme reserved for the Spanish diva. Now what the subscribers wanted to know was, why had De-bienne and Poligny applied to Daae, when Carlotta was taken ill? Did they know of her hidden genius? And why had she kept it hidden? Oddly enough, she was not known to have a voice instructor at that moment. The whole thing was a mystery.

  The Comte de Chagny, standing up in his box, listened to all this frenzy and took part in it by applauding loudly. Philippe Georges Marie Comte de Chagny was just forty-one years of age. He was a great aristocrat and a good-looking man, exquisitely polite to the women and a little haughty to the men, who did not always forgive him his social successes. He had an excellent heart and an irreproachable conscience. On the death of old Count Philibert, he had become the head of one of the oldest and most distinguished families in France, whose arms dated back to the fourteenth century.

  His brother Raoul was born twenty years after him, and at the time of the old count's death Raoul was twelve years old. Philippe busied himself actively with the youngster's education. He was admirably assisted in this work, first by his sisters and afterwards by an old aunt, the widow of a naval officer, who lived at Brest and gave young Raoul

  a taste for the sea. The lad entered the Borda training-ship, finished his course with honours and sailed around the world.

  He remained shy and innocent. As a matter of fact, petted as he was by his two sisters and his old aunt, he had retained from this purely feminine education manners that were almost candid, stamped with a charm which nothing had yet been able to spoil. He was now a little over twenty-one and looked eighteen with his fair hair and blue eyes.

  Philippe spoiled Raoul and took advantage of the young man's leave of absence to show him Paris, with all its luxurious and artistic delights. He took him with him wherever he went, even introducing him to the foyer of the ballet, where the count was said to be "on terms" with Sorelli. He often came to spend an hour or two after dinner in the company of the dancer who, though not very witty, had the finest eyes that ever were seen.

  Still, Philippe would perhaps not have taken his brother behind the scenes of the Opera if Raoul had not been the first to ask him, repeatedly renewing his request with a gentle obstinacy which the count remembered at a later date.

  On that evening, Philippe, after applauding Christine Daae, turned to Raoul and saw that he was quite pale. "Let's go," said Raoul in a trembling voice.

  'Where do you want to go?" asked the count, astonished at his brother's sudden excitement.

  "Let's go and see her. She never sang like that before."

  The count gave his brother a curious, smiling glance and looked quite pleased. He understood now why Raoul was absent-minded when spoken to and why he always tried to turn every conversation to the Opera.

  Postponing his usual visit to Sorelli for a few minutes, the count followed his brother down the passage that led to Christine Daae's dressing-room and saw that it was full of people. The girl had not yet come
to and the theatre doctor had just arrived at the moment when Raoul entered on his heels. So, Christine received first aid from the one, while opening her eyes in the arms of the other. The count and many more crowded in the doorway.

  "Don't you think, doctor, that these gentlemen had better clear the room?" asked Raoul coolly.

  "You're quite right," said the doctor.

  And he sent every one away, except Raoul and the maid, who looked at Raoul with undisguised astonishment. She had never seen him before and yet dared not question him. The doctor, for his part, imagined that the young man was acting as he did because he had every right to do so.

  Meanwhile, Christine Daae gave a deep sigh. She turned her head, saw Raoul and started. "Monsieur/' she said, in a whisper, "who are you?"

  "Mademoiselle," replied the young man, kneeling before her and pressing a fervent kiss on the diva's hand, "I rescued your scarf from the sea many years ago."

  Christine looked at the doctor, then at the maid, and all three began to laugh.

  Raoul turned very red and stood up. "Mademoiselle," he said, "since you are pleased not to recognize me, I should like to say something to you in private, something very important."

  "I think you should go," said the doctor, with his most pleasant smile. "Leave me to attend to Mademoiselle."

  "Thank you, doctor. I should like to be alone. Please go away, all of you. Leave me. I feel very restless this evening."

  The doctor tried to protest, but, seeing the girl's evident agitation, thought that the best remedy was not to thwart her. And he went away, saying to Raoul outside:

  "She is not herself tonight. She is usually such a gentle girl."

  Then he said goodnight and Raoul was left alone. The whole of this part of the theatre was now deserted, as he waited in silent solitude, hiding himself in the shadow of a doorway.