The Return of Peter Grimm, David Belasco [black books to read TXT] 📗

Pole, but not a penny to discover his immortal destiny.

PETER. [_Stubbornly_.] I don't believe in spook mediums and never shall believe in them.

DR. MACPHERSON. Probably most professional mediums cheat--perhaps every one of them; but some of them are capable of real demonstrations at times.

PETER. Once a swindler, always a swindler. Besides, why can't my old friends come straight back to me and say, "Peter Grimm, here I am!" When they do--if they do--I shall be the first man to take off my hat to them and hold out my hand in welcome.

DR. MACPHERSON. You ask me why? Why can't a telegram travel on a fence instead of on a wire? Your friends could come back to you if you could put yourself in a receptive condition; but if you cannot, you must depend upon a medium--a sensitive.

PETER. A what? [_To_ CATHERINE.] Something new, eh? He has all the names for them. Yesterday it was "apports"--flowers that fell down from nowhere and hit you on the nose. He talks like a medium's parrot. He has only to close his eyes and along comes the parade. Spooks! Spooky spooks! And now he wants me to settle my worldly affairs and join in the procession.

CATHERINE. [_Puzzled_.] Settle your worldly affairs? What do you mean, Uncle Peter?

PETER. [_Evasively_.] Just some more of his nonsense. Doctor, you've seen a good many cross to the other world; tell me--did you ever see one of them come back--one?

DR. MACPHERSON. No.

PETER. [_Sipping his coffee_.] Never have, eh? And never will. Take another cup of poison, Andrew.

_The_ DOCTOR _gives his cup to_ CATHERINE, _who fills it_. PETER _passes the waffles to the_ DOCTOR, _at the same time winking at_ CATHERINE _as the_ DOCTOR _takes another_.

DR. MACPHERSON. There was not perhaps the intimate bond between doctor and patients to bring them back. But in my own family, I have known of a case.

PETER. [_Apart to_ CATHERINE.] He's off again.

CATHERINE. [_Eager to listen_.] Please don't interrupt, Uncle. I love to hear him tell of--

DR. MACPHERSON. I have known of a return such as you mention. A distant cousin died in London and she was seen almost instantly in New York.

PETER. She must have travelled on a biplane, Andrew.

DR. MACPHERSON. If my voice can be heard from San Francisco over the telephone, why cannot a soul with a God-given force behind it dart over the entire universe? Is Thomas Edison greater than God?

CATHERINE. [_Shocked_.] Doctor!

DR. MACPHERSON. And they can't tuck it _all_ on telepathy. Telepathy cannot explain the case of a spirit-message giving the contents of a sealed letter known only to the person that died. Here's another interesting case.

PETER. This is better than "Puss in Boots," isn't it, Katie? More--er-- flibbertigibberty. Katie always loved fairy stories.

CATHERINE. [_Listening eagerly_.] Uncle, please.

DR. MACPHERSON. [_Ignoring_ PETER, _speaking directly to_ CATHERINE, _who is all attention_.] An officer on the Polar vessel, the _Jeannette_, sent to the Artic regions by the New York _Herald_, appeared at his wife's bedside. _She_ was in Brooklyn--_he_ was on the Polar sea. He said to her, "Count." She distinctly heard a ship's bell and the word "Count" again. She had counted six when her husband's voice said, "Six bells--and the _Jeanette_ is lost." The ship was really lost at the time she saw the vision.

PETER. A bad dream. "Six bells and the"--Ha! Ha! Spirit messages! Suet pudding has brought me messages from the North Pole, and I receive messages from Kingdom Come after I've eaten a piece of mince pie.

DR. MACPHERSON. There have been seventeen thousand other cases found to be worth investigation by the London Society of Psychical Research.

PETER. [_Changing_.] Supposing, Andrew, that I did "cross over"--I believe that's what you call dying,--that I _did_ want to come back to see how you and the little Katie and Frederik were getting on, how do you think I could manage to do it?

DR. MACPHERSON. When we hypnotize subjects, Peter, our thoughts take possession of them. As we enter their bodies, we take the place of a something that leaves them--a shadow-self. This self can be sent out of the room--even to a long distance. This self leaves us entirely after death on the first, second or third day, or so I believe. This is the force which you would employ to come back to earth--the astral envelope.

PETER. Yes, but what proof have you, Doctor, that I've got an--an astral envelope.

DR. MACPHERSON. [_Easily_.] De Rochas has actually photographed it by radio-photography.

PETER. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho!

DR. MACPHERSON. Mind you--they couldn't _see_ it when they photographed it.

PETER. I imagine not. See it? Ho! Ho!

DR. MACPHERSON. It stood a few feet away from the sleeper, and was located by striking at the air and watching for the corresponding portion of the sleeper's body to recoil. By pricking a certain part of this shadow-self with a pin, the cheek of the patient could be made to bleed. The camera was focussed on this part of the shadow-self for fifteen minutes. The result was the profile of a head.

PETER. [_After a pause_.] ... You believe that?

DR. MACPHERSON. The experiment has been repeated again and again. Nobody acquainted with the subject denies it now.

PETER. Spook pictures taken by professional mediums! [_Turning away from the table as though he had heard enough._

DR. MACPHERSON. De Rochas, who took the pictures of which I speak, is a lawyer of standing; and the room was full of scientists who saw the pictures taken.

PETER. Hypnotized--all of them. Humbug, Andrew!

DR. MACPHERSON. Under these conditions, it is quite impossible to hypnotize a room full of people. Perhaps you think the camera was hypnotized? In similar circumstances, says Lombroso, an unnatural current of cold air went through the room and lowered the thermometer several degrees. Can you hypnotize a thermometer?

CATHERINE. [_Impressed_.] That's wonderful, Doctor!

PETER. Yes, it's a very pretty fairy story; but it would sound better set to shivery music. [_Sings_.] Tol! Dol! Dol! Dol! [_Rising to get his pipe and tobacco_.] No, sir! I refuse to agree to your compact. You cannot pick the lock of heaven's gate. We don't come back. God did enough for us when he gave us life and strength to work and the work to do. He owes us no explanations. I believe in the old-fashioned paradise with a locked gate. [_He fills his pipe and lights it_.] No bogies for me.

DR. MACPHERSON. [_Rising_.] Peter, I console myself with the thought that men have scoffed at the laws of gravitation, at vaccination, magnetism, daguerreotypes, steamboats, cars, telephones, wireless telegraphy and lighting by gas. [_Showing feeling_.] I'm very much disappointed that you refuse my request.

PETER. [_Laying down his pipe on the table_.] Since you take it so seriously--here--[_Offers his hand_.] I'll agree. I know you're an old fool--and I'm another. Now then--[_Shakes hands._] it's settled. Whichever one shall go first--[_He bursts into laughter--then controlling himself_.] If I do come back, I'll apologize, Andrew.

DR. MACPHERSON. Do you mean it?

PETER. I'll apologize. Wait [_Taking the keys from the sideboard_.], let us seal the compact in a glass of my famous plum brandy.

DR. MACPHERSON. Good!

PETER. [_As he passes off_.] We'll drink to spooks.

CATHERINE. You really do believe, Doctor, that the dead can come back, don't you?

DR. MACPHERSON. Of course I do, and why not?

CATHERINE. Do you believe that you could come back here into this room and I could see you?

DR. MACPHERSON. You might not see me; but I could come back to this room.

CATHERINE. Could you talk to me?

DR. MACPHERSON. Yes.

CATHERINE. And could I hear you?

DR. MACPHERSON. I believe so. That's what we're trying to make possible. [CATHERINE, _still wondering, passes off with the tray. From the cellar,_ PETER _can be heard singing lustily._

PETER. "If you want a bite that's good to eat, (Tra, la, ritte, ra, la, la, la!) Try out a goose that's fat and sweet, (Tra, la, ritte, ra, la, la, la!")

_During the song,_ MRS. BATHOLOMMEY _has given a quick tap on the door and entered. She is about forty years of age. Her faded brown hair is streaked with grey. She wears a plain black alpaca costume._

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [_Agitated_.] Good-morning, Doctor. Fortunate that I found you alone.

DR. MACPHERSON. [_Dryly_.] Hy're you, Mrs. Batholommey?

_The_ REV. HENRY BATHOLOMMEY _now enters. He is a man of about forty-five, wearing the frock coat, high waistcoat and square topped hat of a minister of the Dutch Reformed Church._

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Hy're, Henry?

_The_ REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY _bows._ WILLIAM _has returned from his errand and entered the room,--a picture-book under his arm. He sits up by the window, absorbed in the pictures--unnoticed by the others._

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [_Closing the door left open by_ PETER, _shutting out the sound of his voice_.] Well, Doctor ... [_She pauses for a moment to catch her breath and wipe her eyes_.] I suppose you've told him he's got to die.

DR. MACPHERSON. [_Eyeing_ MRS. BATHOLOMMEY _with disfavour_.] Who's got to die?

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Why, Mr. Grimm, of course.

DR. MACPHERSON. [_Amazed_.] Does the whole damned town know it?

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Oh!

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Easy, Doctor. You consulted Mr. Grimm's lawyer and _his_ wife told _my_ wife.

DR. MACPHERSON. He gabbed, eh? Hang the professional man who tells things to his wife.

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Doctor!

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. [_With solicitude_.] I greatly grieve to hear that Mr. Grimm has an incurable malady. His heart, I understand. [_Shakes his head._

DR. MACPHERSON. He's not to be told. Is that clear? He may die in twenty minutes--may outlive us all--probably will.

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [_Pointing to_ REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY.] It seems to me, Doctor, that if _you_ can't do any more, it's _his_ turn. It's a wonder you Doctors don't baptize the babies.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Rose!

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. At the last minute, he'll want to make a will--and you know he hasn't made one. He'll want to remember the church and his charities and his friends; and if he dies before he can carry out his intentions, the minister will be blamed as usual. It's not fair.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Sh! Sh! My dear! These private matters--

DR. MACPHERSON. I'll trouble you, Mistress Batholommey, to attend to your own affairs. Did you never hear the story of the lady who flattened her nose--sticking it into other people's business?

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Doctor! Doctor! I can't have that!

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Let him talk, Henry. No one in this town pays any attention to Dr. MacPherson since he took up with spiritualism.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Rose! [_He motions to her to be silent, as_ PETER, _coming up the stairs from the cellar, is heard singing_.

PETER. "Drop in the fat some apples red, (Tra, la, ritte, ra, la, la, la!) Then spread it on a piece of bread, (Tra, la, ritte, ra, la, la, la!)"

[_He opens the door, carrying a big bottle in his hand; hailing the_ BATHOLOMMEYS _cheerfully_.] Good-morning, good people. [_He puts the jug on the sideboard and hangs up the key. The_ BATHOLOMMEYS _look sadly at_ PETER. MRS. BATHOLOMMEY _in the fore-ground tries to smile pleasantly, but can only assume the peculiarly pained expression of a person about to break terrible news._

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY.