medium
: Everybody concentrate.
mrs. marple
: Quincy, are they treating you okay?
quincy
: Not bad, except it takes four days to get your cleaning back.
mrs. marple
: Quincy, do you miss me?
quincy
: Huh? Oh, er, sure. Sure, kid. I got to be going. . . .
medium
: I'm losing it. He's fading. . . .
I found this seance to pass the most stringent tests of credulity, with the minor exception of a phonograph, which was found under Madame Reynaud's dress.
There is no doubt that certain events recorded at seances are genuine. Who does not recall the famous incident at Sybil Seretsky's, when her goldfish sang "I Got Rhythm"—a favorite tune of her recently deceased nephew? But contacting the dead is at best difficult, since most deceased are reluctant to speak up, and those that do seem to hem and haw before getting to the point. The author has actually seen a table rise, and Dr. Joshua Fleagle, of Harvard, attended a seance in which a table not only rose but excused itself and went upstairs to sleep.
One of the most astounding cases of clairvoyance is that of the noted Greek psychic, Achille Londos. Londos realized he had "unusual powers" by the age of ten, when he could lie in bed and, by concentrating, make his father's false teeth jump out of his mouth. After a neighbor's husband had been missing for three weeks, Londos told them to
look in the stove, where the man was found knitting. Londos could concentrate on a person's face and force the image to come out on a roll of ordinary Kodak film, although he could never seem to get anybody to smile.
In 1964, he was called in to aid police in capturing the Diisseldorf Strangler, a fiend who always left a baked Alaska on the chests of his victims. Merely by sniffing a handkerchief, Londos led police to Siegfried Lenz, handyman at a school for deaf turkeys, who said he was the strangler and could he please have his handkerchief back.
Londos is just one of many people with psychic powers. C. N. Jerome, the psychic, of Newport, Rhode Island, claims he can guess any card being thought of by a squirrel.
Finally, we come to Aristonidis, the sixteenth-century count whose predictions continue to dazzle and perplex even the most skeptical. Typical examples are:
"Two nations will go to war, but only one will win."
(Experts feel this probably refers to the Russo-Japanese War of 1904-05—an astounding feat of prognostication, considering the fact that it was made in 1540.)
"A
man in Istanbul will have his hat blocked, and it will be ruined."
(In 1860, Abu Hamid, Ottoman warrior, sent his cap out to be cleaned, and it came back with spots.)
"I see a great person, who one day will invent for mankind a garment to be worn over his trousers for protection while cooking. It will be called an 'abron' or 'aprone.' "
(Aristonidis meant the apron, of course.)
"A
leader will emerge in France. He will be very short and will cause great calamity."
(This is a reference either to Napoleon or to Marcel
Lumet, an eighteenth-century midget who instigated a plot to rub bearnaise sauce on Voltaire.)
"In the New World, there will be a place named California, and a man named Joseph Cotten will become famous."
(No explanation necessary.)
look in the stove, where the man was found knitting. Londos could concentrate on a person's face and force the image to come out on a roll of ordinary Kodak film, although he could never seem to get anybody to smile.
In 1964, he was called in to aid police in capturing the Dusseldorf Strangler, a fiend who always left a baked Alaska on the chests of his victims. Merely by sniffing a handkerchief, Londos led police to Siegfried Lenz, handyman at a school for deaf turkeys, who said he was the strangler and could he please have his handkerchief back.
Londos is just one of many people with psychic powers. C. N. Jerome, the psychic, of Newport, Rhode Island, claims he can guess any card being thought of by a squirrel.
Finally, we come to Aristonidis, the sixteenth-century count whose predictions continue to dazzle and perplex even the most skeptical. Typical examples are:
'Two nations will go to war, but only one will win."
(Experts feel this probably refers to the Russo-Japanese War of 1904-05—an astounding feat of prognostication, considering the fact that it was made in 1540.)
"A man in Istanbul will have his hat blocked, and it will be ruined."
(In 1860, Abu Hamid, Ottoman warrior, sent his cap out to be cleaned, and it came back with spots.)
"I see a great person, who one day will invent for mankind a garment to be worn over his trousers for protection while cooking. It will be called an 'abron' or 'aprone.' "
(Aristonidis meant the apron, of course.)
"A leader will emerge in France. He will be very short and will cause great calamity."
(This is a reference either to Napoleon or to Marcel
Lumet, an eighteenth-century midget who instigated a plot to rub bearnaise sauce on Voltaire.)
"In the New World, there will be a place named California, and a man named Joseph Cotten will become famous."
(No explanation necessary.)
The ballet opens at a carnival. There are refreshments and rides. Many people in gaily colored costumes dance and laugh, to the accompaniment of flutes and woodwinds, while the trombones play in a minor key to suggest that soon the refreshments will run out and everybody will be dead.
Wandering around the fairgrounds is a beautiful girl named Natasha, who is sad because her father has been sent to fight in Khartoum, and there is no war there. Following her is Leonid, a young student, who is too shy to speak to Natasha but places a mixed-green salad on her doorstep every night. Natasha is moved by the gift and wishes she could meet the man who is sending it, particularly since she hates the house dressing and would prefer Roquefort.
The two strangers accidentally meet when Leonid,
2S
trying to compose a love note to Natasha, falls out of the Ferris wheel. She helps him up, and the two dance a pas de deux, after which Leonid tries to impress her by rolling his eyes until he has to be carried to the comfort station. Leonid offers profuse apologies and suggests that the two of them stroll to Tent No. 5 and watch a puppet show—an invitation that confirms in Natasha's mind the idea that she is dealing with an idiot.
The puppet show, however, is enchanting, and a large, amusing puppet named Dmitri falls in love with Natasha. She realizes that although he is only sawdust, he has a soul, and when he suggests checking into a hotel as Mr. and Mrs. John Doe, she is excited. The two dance a pas de deux, despite the fact that she just danced a pas de deux and is perspiring like an ox. Natasha confesses her love for Dmitri and swears that the two of them will always be together, even though the man who works his strings will have to sleep on a cot in the parlor.
Leonid, outraged at being thrown over for a puppet, shoots Dmitri, who doesn't die but appears on the roof of the Merchants Bank, drinking haughtily from a bottle of Air Wick. The action becomes confused, and there is much rejoicing when Natasha fractures her skull.
A melodic prelude recounts man's relation to the earth and why he always seems to wind up buried in it. The curtain rises on a vast primitive wasteland, not unlike certain parts of New Jersey. Men and women sit in separate groups and then begin to dance, but they have no idea why and soon sit down again. Presently a young male in the prime of life enters and dances a hymn to fire. Suddenly it is discovered he is
on
fire, and after being put out he slinks off. Now the stage becomes dark, and Man challenges Nature—a stirring encounter during which Nature is bitten on the hip,
with the result that for the next six months the temperature never rises above thirteen degrees.
Scene 2 opens, and Spring still has not come, although it is late August and no one is quite sure when to set the clocks ahead. The elders of the tribe meet and decide to propitiate Nature by sacrificing a young girl. A maiden is selected. She is given three hours to report to the outskirts of town, where she is told they are having a weenie roast. When the girl appears that night, she asks where all the frankfurters are. She is ordered by the elders to dance herself to death. She pleads pathetically, telling them that she is not that good a dancer. The villagers insist, and, as the music builds relentlessly, the girl spins in a frenzy, achieving sufficient centrifugal force to hurl her silver fillings across a football field. Everyone rejoices, but too soon, for not only does Spring fail to come but two of the elders get subpoenaed in a mail-fraud charge.
The overture begins with the brass in a joyous mood, while underneath, the double basses seem to be warning us, "Don't listen to the brass. What the hell does brass know?" Presently, the curtain rises on Prince Sigmund's palace, magnificent in its splendor and rent-controlled. It is the Prince's twenty-first birthday, but he grows despondent as he opens his gifts because most of them turn out to be pajamas. One by one, his old friends pay their respects, and he greets them with a handshake or a slap on the back, depending on which way they are facing. He reminisces with his oldest friend, Wolfschmidt, and they vow that if either of them grows bald the other will wear a toupee.
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The ensemble dances in preparation for the hunt until Sigmund says, "What hunt?" No one is quite sure, but the revelry has gone too far, and when the check comes there is much anger.
Bored with life, Sigmund dances his way down to the shore of the lake, where he stares at his perfect reflection for forty minutes, annoyed at not having brought his shaving equipment. Suddenly he hears the flutter of wings, and a group of wild swans flies across the moon; they take the first right and head back to the Prince. Sigmund is astounded to see that their leader is part swan and part woman—unfortunately, divided lengthwise. She enchants Sigmund, who is careful not to make any poultry jokes. The two dance a pas de deux that ends when Sigmund throws his back out. Yvette, the Swan Woman, tells Sigmund that she is under a spell cast by a magician named Von Epps, and that because of her appearance it is nearly impossible to get a bank loan. In an especially difficult solo, she explains, in dance language, that the only way to lift Von Epp's curse is for her lover to go to secretarial school and learn shorthand. This is odious to Sigmund, but he swears he will. Suddenly Von Epps appears, in the form of yesterday's laundry, and spirits Yvette away with him as the first act ends.
As Act II begins, it is a week later, and the Prince is about to be married to Justine, a woman he had completely forgotten about. Sigmund is torn by ambivalent feelings because he still loves the Swan Woman, but Justine is very beautiful, too, and has no major drawbacks like feathers or a beak. Justine dances seductively around Sigmund, who seems to be debating whether to go through with the marriage or find Yvette and see if the doctors can come up with anything. Cymbals crash and Von Epps, the Magician, enters. Actually, he was not invited to the wedding, but he promises not to eat much. Furious, Sigmund pulls his sword and stabs Von Epps through the heart. This casts a pall on the party, and Sigmund's mother commands the chef to wait a few minutes before bringing out the roast beef.
Meanwhile, Wolfschmidt, acting on Sigmund's behalf,
has found the missing Yvette—not a difficult task, he explains, "because how many half women, half swans are there hanging around Hamburg?" Despite Justine's imploring, Sigmund rushes off to Yvette. Justine runs after him and kisses him, as the orchestra strikes a minor chord and we realize Sigmund has his leotards on inside out. Yvette weeps, explaining that the only way to lift the spell is for her to die. In one of the most moving and beautiful passages in any ballet, she runs headlong into a brick wall. Sigmund watches her body change from a dead swan to a dead woman and realizes how bittersweet life can be, particularly for fowl. Grief-stricken, he decides to join her, and after a delicate dance of mourning he swallows a barbell.
This celebrated electronic ballet is perhaps the most dramatic of all modern dances. It begins with an overture of contemporary sounds—street noises, ticking clocks, a dwarf playing "Hora Staccato" on a comb and tissue paper. The curtain then rises on a blank stage. For several minutes, nothing happens; eventually, the curtain falls and there is an intermission.
Act II begins with a hush as some young men dance on, pretending to be insects. The leader is a common housefly, while the others resemble a variety of garden pests. They move sinuously to the dissonant music, in search of an immense buttered roll, which gradually appears in the background. They are about to eat it when they are interrupted by a procession of women who carry a large can of Raid. Panic-stricken, the males try to escape, but they are put into metal cages, with nothing to read. The women dance orgiastically around the cages, preparing to devour the males the minute they can find some soy sauce. As the females prepare to dine, one young girl notices a forlorn male, with drooping antennae. She is
drawn to him, and the two dance slowly to French horns as he whispers in her ear, "Don't eat me." The two fall in love, and make elaborate plans for a nuptial flight, but the female changes her mind and devours the male, preferring instead to move in with a roommate.
Unbearably lovely music is heard as the curtain rises, and we see the woods on a summer afternoon. A fawn dances on and nibbles slowly at some leaves. He drifts lazily through the soft foliage. Soon he starts coughing and drops dead.
Scholars
will recall that several years ago a shepherd, wandering in the Gulf of Aqaba, stumbled upon a cave containing several large clay jars and also two tickets to the ice show. Inside the jars were discovered six parchment scrolls with ancient incomprehensible writing which the shepherd, in his ignorance, sold to the museum for $750,000 apiece. Two years later the jars turned up in a pawnshop in Philadelphia. One year later the shepherd turned up in a pawnshop in Philadelphia and neither was claimed.