 Part 3 CHAPTERS 9, 10, and 11 of Perkins the Faker Atravisty on Reincarnation by Edward S. Vanzile. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Clarissa's Troublesome Baby CHAPTER 9 A Boston Girl It would be curious if we should find science and philosophy taking up again the old theory of metempsychosis. But stranger things have happened in the history of human opinion. James Freeman Clark It was only through the exercise of the nicest care that I escaped a complete nervous collapse during the weeks immediately following our now famous dinner-to-hair platner. I was tempted at times to run off to Europe and leave my favorite household to fend for itself. I seemed to spend the larger part of my time in keeping Jack quiet and Tom cool. Which was the more difficult task I'm unable to say. Jack remained stubbornly unreasonable regarding the kind of nurse he was willing to submit to while Tom grumbled continually because I spent so much time with the baby. What is the trouble in the nursery, Clarissa? The latter asked me one morning at breakfast. You have tried ten different experiments there since that crazy woman left us, and now you tell me that her place is again vacant. We pay the highest wages. Her ratio is not a sickly fretful child, but still these alleged nurses come and go, offering so far as I can learn, only the flimsiest excuses for throwing up a seemingly desirable situation. There must be something radically wrong up there. Have you any idea, my dear, what it is? How could I tell Tom the truth about the matter? Had I informed him that the baby still insisted upon my engaging and elderly woman deaf and dumb from birth, and refused to adapt himself to any one of the many compromises that I had offered to him, Tom would have been justified in suspecting the existence of insanity germs in our nursery. He had seen one woman issue therefrom in an apparently crazy condition, and he had noted the eccentric fickleness of her successors. If I should now lay the actual facts before him, he would have good reason to believe that I also had lost my mental balance. At that moment there came to me a vague dread of my second husband's scientific habit of mind. It was evident that he was bent upon collecting data about the baby and his nurses in order that he might reach some reasonable conclusion in explanation of the existing disturbed conditions in our formerly unruffled household. And the unfortunate part of it was that Tom had the leisure, and I feared, the inclination to wrestle with this problem until he had solved it in some way satisfactory to his exacting mind. The root of the trouble, Tom, I answered presently, after carefully weighing my words before uttering them, the root of the trouble is not in the baby or the nursery or the wages or in me. It is to be found in the great change that is going on in the conditions of domestic service. A child's nurse today, I mean one of the kind that we should be willing to employ, is a highly trained specialist who has grown haughty and despotic in the mere exercise of her profession. She realizes that the demand for experts in her line is greater than the supply and... I see. Interrupted Tom, rather rudely, I thought. But it does seem to me that if other people in our position, Claire, can find satisfactory nurses, we should not be the one family in the city that is forced to take care of its own baby. I am willing to pay any amount of money to ensure her ratio's comfort. I'll admit that he is difficult at times. He seems to be a very sensitive, highly strong child, but there's nothing abnormal about him. He's pugnacious and haught tempered, but most healthy boy babies are inclined to be spunky, aren't they? What I object to is that he is gradually absorbing all your time, day and night, Claire. I'm not jealous of her ratio, my dear, but I don't believe in the old-fashioned idea that parents should sacrifice their comfort upon the altar of the nursery. You understand my position, do you not? Gwendolyn will be here to-day, Tom. I said smiling at his disturbed face from across the table. I hope that she'll take a fancy to the baby. At all events, she'll relieve the situation. When your wife's in the nursery, Tom, you'll have your cousin to talk to. Bah! Grumbled Tom, rising and placing a hand on the back of his chair. Gwendolyn's pretty and chic and up-to-date, but she's not in your class intellectually, my dear. I smiled gratefully at Tom's compliment, but my mind was not at ease. Wasn't the presence of Gwendolyn Van Voorhees in the house more likely to prove disastrous than satisfactory? When, however, Tom had insisted that his cousin's long-deferred visit to us be made at once, I could find no reasonable argument to oppose to his wishes. From various points of view, Gwendolyn's advent to the household appeared to be desirable. She was a charming girl, well-read, widely-traveled, and a thoroughbred little Maudaine. But I dreaded her arrival, despite the fact that I could not have put the vague fears that haunted me into specific words. I was beginning to realize what it means in this prosaic, unimaginative world to hide in one's bosom an uncanny secret. There had come to me of late moments when the inclination to tell Tom the whole truth about her ratio, or rather Jack, was almost irresistible. Perhaps my real reason for objecting to Gwendolyn's presence was my fear, unacknowledged to myself, that I should be tempted eventually to tell her the amazing tale of Jack's ridiculous reincarnation. There were times, and they had constantly become more frequent when the burden of my secret seemed greater than I could bear. When the longing to confess to somebody that the baby was a psychical freak of the most astounding kind burned hot within me. As I lingered over my coffee in the breakfast-room that morning after Tom's departure, the immediate future looked black enough, and I could not see that the coming of Gwendolyn gave it a lighter shade. Nevertheless, I was really glad to welcome her later in the morning as I met her at the door of the drying-room and kissed her pretty, pecanth mouth affectionately. I was awfully glad to come to you, Claire. She cried vivaciously as we mounted the stairs that I might show her to her rooms. You know the song with the chorus. There's one New York, only one New York. It's been running through my mind for two days. But I thought you were wedded to Boston, Gwen. I remarked, my mind wandering for a moment as we passed the closed door of the nursery. Presently we were seated cosily before an open fire in the guest chamber, while Gwendolyn, dark, petite, smiling, appeared to me to be a most ornamental and fascinating addition to our little circle. Boston is amusing, she was saying in her pleasantly emphatic way. But it's so erratic, don't you know? My nerves always begin to ache after I've been there a few weeks. They are so fond of fads, Claire, those clever Bostonians. They take up everything you know and always go to extremes. It's American history now, is it not? I asked. Yes, answered Gwen gazing at the fire amusingly. That's coming in again. But they're perfectly crazy about theosophy just at present. You'd be amazed, Claire, to discover how much I know about nirvana and adepts and mantempsychosis and all that kind of thing. Several of my most intimate friends have become vegetarians and live mostly on baked beans. It's awfully funny. They take it all so seriously. And what do you really think of it, Gwen? I asked nervously. Think of what? Of which, my dear? Of living on beans, do you mean? No. Beans are only a side issue or to speak with Tom's scientific accuracy a side dish. What do you think, for instance, of reincarnation? I don't know what to think about it, Claire, she answered reflectively, pushing her dainty little feet toward the fire and gazing into my face with earnest eyes. Do you know there are times when I really imagine that there's something in it? Of course, it's absurd in a way, but it does solve a great many problems, does it not? It conforms beautifully to the laws of evolution and the conservation of energy, and there are so many things that can't be explained by any other theory. But it always makes me shudder to think of it. Imagine, Claire, being born again in Turkey, for example. Wouldn't it be shocking? I laughed rather hysterically. The whole subject is too silly for any use, I managed to say in a superior kind of way. It does very well for Boston, of course, but it will never have much of a run here in New York. What a narrow way of looking at it, Claire, exclaimed Gwendolyn protestingly. Of course, I'm not a theosophist, but I'm broad-minded enough to realize that what's true in Bernadette's or Boston must be true in New York. If reincarnation is really going on in this world, I can't believe that any exception is made in favor of our Knickerbocker families. Again, I laughed aloud, nervously. It was pleasing to me to discover that Gwendolyn had a mind open to startling truths, but I regretted the fact that I must henceforth constantly fight against the temptation to tell her my great secret. The immanence of my peril in this regard was illustrated at once, for she turned to me suddenly and asked, with great vivacity of manner, Where is the baby, Claire? Won't you let me see him at once? I came to visit him, you know, not you or Tom. He's got such a lovely name. Her ratio is so fine and dignified. Would you call him for short, my dear? I have not given him a nickname, Gwendolyn. I answered coldly. If you wish, we'll go to the nursery at once. As I told you in my letter, we've had difficulty in getting the baby a nurse. Just at present I'm obliged to spend most of my time with him. But I give you fair warning, you know. I am so glad that I can have the run of the nursery," cried Gwendolyn Gailey, springing to her feet. I do so love really nice children, Claire. Is he a jolly baby? Will he take to me, do you think? I answered her question as we reached the door of the nursery. I am sure I can't say when. Her ratio is very eccentric and pronounced in his likes and dislikes. But if he goes to you at once, follow my advice and don't toss him up and down violently. He says, that is, he doesn't like to be shaken after taken. CHAPTER X An Uncanny Flirtation And thou too, when on me fell thine eye, would disclose thy cheeks deep purple dye. Toward each other like relations, dear, as an exile to his home draws near, were we not then flying? SHILLER I must acknowledge that the enthusiasm displayed by the baby when he caught sight of Gwendolyn filled me with mingled astonishment and annoyance. He sat bolt upright in his crib, waved his hands joyously in the air and crowed lustily. I realized that the poor little chap was laboring under a delusion that he had mistaken Tom's fascinating cousin for a new nurse. But even so, why should he act as if he were intoxicated with happiness? I could not check the conviction that Jack was making an exhibition of very bad taste by his warm reception of Gwendolyn. That I was jealous of her was not true. That would have been absurd. But it was not pleasant to realize that the baby could rejoice openly in the advent of one who, as he believed at the moment, was to take my place in the nursery. Jack's horrible, psychical disaster had greatly endeared him to me and I could not help feeling hurt at his eagerness to go to a perfect stranger. There was something not altogether infantile in the way in which he threw his chubby little arms around Gwendolyn's neck and tucked his smiling little face into her cheek, chuckling contentedly while the girl laughed aloud. Isn't he just the sweetest little thing that ever lived? cried Gwendolyn with spontaneous enthusiasm. Did you see him jump right into my arms, Claire? Such a thing never happened to me before. Is he always so cordial to strangers? As I told you, Gwendolyn, her ratio goes to extremes in his likes and dislikes. He evidently approves of you. For the life of me I could not prevent my voice from sounding cold and harsh. But the girl was too thoroughly interested in the baby to note the lack of cordiality in my tones. Oh, clear little angelic creature! She was murmuring to him as she seated herself in the rocking chair with Jack cuddled in her arms. Will you always love your cousin, Gwen? Here was a kind of baby talk that Jack seemed to like for his every sound and movement expressed approval of Gwendolyn's nonsensical endearments. But I must admit it annoyed me. Logically I could not blame Gwendolyn for displaying a sudden fondness for the baby. She had no way of knowing that she was holding my first husband on her lap. I was glad that she was ignorant of the fact, but while my mind fully exonerated her, my heart protested against her fetching ways with the child. Jack as a baby had never appeared to such advantage. He smiled and laughed, winked his eyes, made funny little holes with his mouth, and waved his tiny fist in the air in a kind of oratorical way that was irresistibly amusing. He's perfectly sweet, cried Gwendolyn, glancing at me with dancing eyes. I don't think that I ever cared much for a baby before, Claire, but her ratio has cleared the first bunker beautifully. Is he always like this? I laughed aloud nervously. I hadn't the courage to say anything uncomplimentary of the baby at that moment, not knowing how far I could trust Jack's self-control, and so I remarked in a non-committal way. He's a very good baby on the whole, my dear. Of course, he isn't to be blamed for protesting if things don't go just right with him. Of course you aren't, you lovely little caramel, murmured Gwendolyn, her cheeks pressed against Jack's baby face. I've always been so sorry for baby's Claire because they couldn't talk. It must be trying when a pin is sticking into you somewhere to have your gums rubbed by a misguided nurse or to be robbed violently when the heat of the room has made your headache. The baby gave vent to a most astounding yell of delight, a very precocious exhibition of emotion that made Gwendolyn laugh merrily. But his vivacity quite upset me. I feared momentarily that his enthusiasm would find speech an imperative necessity and that Gwendolyn would discover to her consternation that what was theory in Boston had become practice in New York. Thereupon I acted in a most tactless way. I bent down and removed Jack from Gwendolyn's arms to mine. Put me back or I'll denounce you, whispered the baby in my ear. Then he began to howl in the most exaggerated infantile manner. I was annoyed to realize that my cheeks had flushed with anger and that a feeling of hot jealousy had swept over me. Gwendolyn, sympathetic and impressionable, had noticed the outward manifestations of my inner turmoil and had hurried toward the door. I'll go back to my room, Claire. She said as she passed me. When you've put him to sleep, come to me. I want to tell you what I think of him. Au revoir. Oh, dear, sweet, ill marshmallow. Jack and I were alone in the nursery and I seated myself wearily in the rocking chair, holding the uneasy baby on my lap. What did you do that for, Clarissa? He growled, kicking violently with his expressive legs. I was in for the time of my life, this life, I mean, and you deliberately snatched me from that lovely girl's arms and practically drove her from the room. Do you not realize that you have been very cruel, my dear? Surely you can't be ignorant of the fact that I lead a very colorless life. Suddenly the tiresome hundrum of my existence is broken by a chance for a perfectly harmless flirtation. Do you rejoice at your little baby's momentary relief from ennui? Not at all. You treat me with the most tyrannical harshness, grudging me the slightest change in the horrible monotony of this infernal nursery. What's that girl's name? Gwendolyn Van Vores. I murmured. She's Tom's cousin. She called herself Cousin Gwen and expressed the hope that I might always love her, mused Jack, gazing with eyes too old for his face at his dimpled, restless fists. I don't like Tom, Clarissa, but his cousin does him credit. I shall always love her. No, don't rock, my dear. I don't want to go to sleep. If you don't mind, Clarissa, I should like to lie very quiet and think about Gwendolyn. Isn't it a beautiful name? I'm sorry, my name's Horatio. Don't rock, not even a little bit. I'm very nervous, am I not? I'd give half a dozen slips and my silver rattle box for a smoke, Clarissa. Do you think that a cigarette would hurt me? You remember, Jack, that cocktails didn't agree with you, I argued soothingly. I'm sure that tobacco would be very bad for you. Of course you are. Grumbled the baby, resuming his impatient gestures with his legs. You think that everything worth having is bad for me, Clarissa? I suppose that you intend to cut me off entirely from cousin Gwen. Don't be unreasonable, Jack. I implored him. Gwen can come here just as often as she cares to. But you must realize, Jack, that I have no confidence left in your veracity or discretion. You don't keep your promises to me, and you seem to have no realization of the terrible results that might come from a discovery of your identity. Is this a curtain lecture, Clarissa? Growled, Jack. I tell you flatly, my dear, that I can't stand much more. I've about reached the limit of my self-control. There's a deadly dullness to this kind of a life that is slowly driving your sweet, little baby boy, cousin Gwen's caramel and marshmallow to desperation. But what can you do, Jack? I asked, frightened by the peculiar tones in his voice. My role is as hard to play as yours, is it not? We must both be brave and circumspect, my dear. Bah! exclaimed the baby rudely, clutching at my chin with his absurd little hands. You may rock a little now, Clarissa, very gently. Perhaps I could get a nap if you'd stop scolding me for a few moments. CHAPTER XI A mysterious elopement. Empty is the cradle, baby's gone. OLD SONG From one standpoint I have come close to the end of my narrative. From another I am still at its beginning. But, with Tom's permission, I have placed the foregoing facts before the public in the hope that the statement may be read by somebody in Europe, Asia, Africa or America who is able to assist us in solving a hard problem. The New York newspapers have mingled fact and fiction, realism and romance in the articles bearing upon what they call The Great Mintern Mystery, in a manner most annoying to my husband and myself. The only really sympathetic and enlightening account of the awful affliction that has fallen on our Earth's while-happy home was printed by a Boston journal whose editor is a Buddhist. But I'm getting too far ahead of my story. Yet, I have nothing to relate that you who keep abreast of the times do not already know. You remember reading in your morning newspaper a few months ago of the strange disappearance from Mr. Thomas Mintern's townhouse of his baby Horatio Mintern and, I guess, the well-known society-favorite Miss Gwendolyn Van Vores. You have perused, I suppose, subsequent journalistic presentments of the case telling how futile had been the search for our lost ones. Tom, as the public knows, has offered enormous rewards for the slightest clue that should serve to throw even a glimmer of light upon the most astounding disappearance of modern times. We have employed the most famous detectives in all parts of the world in our vain efforts to find some trace of the fugitives, if such Jack and Gwendolyn may be called. But up to the present moment we have learned nothing that can help us in any way in our weary quest. In desperation and as a last resort I have written and published this account of the events that led up to our great loss. When the editor of the magazine insisted I should choose a title for my amazing presentment of our weird experience, a lump came into my throat and tears be dimmed my eyes. Had not Jack himself with the most uncanny foresight chosen the title of my unwilling deposition, Clarissa's troublesome baby. Alas! How little did I realize at the time of his suggestion how appropriate would be this caption to my melancholy tale. Where's Gwendolyn? Tom had asked of me at breakfast upon the morning of the fateful day that was to shatter for all time my second husband's materialistic tendency of thought. In the nursery as usual, I presume, she'd rather play with the baby than eat or sleep, Tom, I answered laughingly. In the present dearth of nurse-mates, Gwendolyn's enthusiasm for Horatio is most opportune. Tom laughed as he lighted his after-breakfast cigar. Let's go to the nursery, Clarissa, and bid them good morning. I haven't seen Horatio for forty-eight hours. I'm glad that Gwen likes him so well, but I really feel that I am entitled to a glimpse of the youngster now and again. Thus did Tom and I gaily mount the stairway to our doom. We rushed, so to speak, with laughing faces to the very edge of a precipice, and toppled over with a quip half-spoken upon our white lips. As we entered the nursery, crying playfully to Gwendolyn to abdicate the throne she had usurped, we were struck silent and motionless by the sudden discovery that the room was empty. Tom was, of course, less shocked than I by Jack's deserted nest. There came to me as I stood there, cold and trembling on the threshold of the nursery, the conviction that I was confronting the scene of another miracle, an environment within which I should never again be annoyed by psychical mysteries. I was recalled to myself by Tom's voice saying, What do you suppose has become of them, my dear? Gwendolyn, Horatio, where are you? Ah, but the pathos of it all. Gwendolyn, Horatio, where are you? Were you willfully, heartlessly selfish, indifferent in your strange ecstasy to the sorrow that you brought to others? Or were you powerless in the grasp of fate, forced through psychical affinity to disappear thus weirdly from the sight of men? You must see, dear reader, that what I have written cannot come to an end that will satisfy either your mind or your heart. I began with an exclamation point. I must conclude with an interrogation mark. And in that obligation I find that my tale resembles every human life. We come to earth with a cry, and we leave it with a question. So far as man is concerned, evolution has been merely a zigzag progress up from protoplasm to a problem. And how has Tom withstood the unmaterialistic revelation that I have been forced to make to him and to the public? Has he been shaken in his faith in the teachings of Buckner, Heckel, and Herr Platner? Of course, being a man, he is slow to admit that his nursery is out-safe to him more enlightenment than his library, but he has grown very gentle and sympathetic when I talk to him about the possibility that the dreams of the brooding east may be nearer the ultimate truth than these syllogisms of the practical west. You see, it was a condition, not a theory which confronted Tom that morning in our empty nursery. Nevertheless, he tells me that he has just hired a young detective who is said to have a genius for solving mysteries and seeks have abandoned us beyond their skill. Let me assure you, dear reader, that if Tom's latest employee gets on the track of Gwendolyn Van Vorre's and little Horatio Mintern, I shall see to it that the public be instantly informed of the fact. End of chapters 9, 10, and 11. End of Perkins the Faker, a travesty on reincarnation by Edward S. Van Zyl. Recorded by Céline Major.