Weird Tales volume 28 number 03
Page 19
"Oh, my darling!" cried the unhappy maiden, throwing herself into the arms of what she imagined to be her lover, "you do but joke in order to frighten your little Elise."
Now it chanced that at the moment of this unexpected embrace voa Hartmann was still leaning back against the end of the sofa, which, like much German furniture, was in a somewhat rickety condition. It also chanced that beneath this end of the sofa there stood a tank full of water in which the physiologist was conducing certain experiments upon the ova of fish, and which he kept in his drawing-room in order to insure an equable temperature. The additional weight of the maiden, combined with the impetus with which she hurled herself
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upon him, caused the precarious piece of furniture to give way, and the body of the unfortunate student was hurled backward into the tank, in which his head and shoulders were firmly wedged, while his lower extremities flapped helplessly about in the air. This was the last straw. Extricating himself with some difficulty from his unpleasant position, von Hartmann gave an inarticulate yell of fury, and dashing out of the room, in spite of the entreaties of Elise, he seized his hat and rushed off into the town, all dripping and disheveled, with the intention of seeking in some inn the food and comfort which he could not find at home.
As the spirit of von Baumgarten, encased in the body of von Hartmann, strode down the winding pathway which led down to the little town, brooding angrily over his many wrongs, he became aware that an elderly man was approaching him who appeared to be in an ad-
vanced state of intoxication. Von Hartmann waited by the side of the road and watched this individual, who came stumbling along, reeling from one side of the road to the other, and singing a student song in a very husky and drunken voice. At first his interest was merely excited by the fact of seeing a man of so venerable an appearance in such a disgraceful condition, but as he approached nearer he became convinced that he knew the other well, though he could not recall when or where he had met him. This impression became so strong with him, that when the stranger came abreast of him he stepped in front of him and took a good look at his features.
"Well, sonny," said the drunken man, surveying von Hartmann, and swaying about in front of him, "where the Henker have I seen you before? I know you as well as I know myself. Who the deuce are you?"
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"I »m Professor von Baumgarten," said the student. "May I ask who you are? I am strangely familiar with your features."
"Yen should never tell lies, young man," said the other. "You're certainly not the professor, for he is an ugly snuffy old chap, and you are a big broad-shouldered young fellow. As to myself, I am Frica von Hartmann, at your service."
"That you certainly are not!" exclaimed the body of von Hartmann. "You might very well be his father. But hullo, sir, are you aware that you are wearing my sruds and my watch-chain?"
"Donnerwetter!" hiccuped the other. "If those are not the trousers for which my tailor is about to sue me, may I never taste beer again!"
Now as von Hartmann, overwhelmed by the many strange things which had occurred to him that day, passed his hand over his forehead and cast his eyes downward, he chanced to catch the reflection of his own face in a pool which the rain had left upon the road. To his utter astonishment he perceived that his face was that of a youth, that his dress was that of a fashionable young student, and that in every way he was the antithesis of die grave and scholarly figure in which his mind was wont to dwell. In an instant his active brain ran over the series of events which had occurred and sprang to the conclusion. He fairly reeled under the blow. ' "Hmmel!" he cried, "I see it all. Our souls are in the wrong bodies. I am you and yoa are I. My theory is proved—hut at what an expense! Is the most scholarly mind in Europe to go about with this frivolous exterior? Oh, the labors of a lifetime ate ruined!" and he smote his breast in his despair.
"I say," remarked the real von Hart-mam from the body of the professor, "I quite see the force of your remarks,
but don't go knocking my body about like that. You received it in excellent condition, but I perceive you have wet it and bruised it, and spilled snuff over my ruffled shirt-front"
"It matters little," the other said, moodily. "Such as we are, so must we stay. My theory is triumphantly proved, but the cost is terrible."
"If I thought so," said the spirit of the student, "it would be hard indeed. What could I do with these stiff old limbs, and how could I woo Elise and persuade her that I was not her father? No, thank heaven, in spite of the beer which has upset me more than it ever could upset my real self, I can see a way out of it."
"How?" gasped the professor.
"Why, by repeating the experiment. Liberate our souls once more, and the chances are that they will find their waj back into their respective bodies."
No drowning man could clutch more eagerly at a straw than did von Baumgarten's spirit at this suggestion. In feverish haste he dragged his own frame to the side of the road and threw it into a mesmeric trance; he then extracted the crystal ball from die pocket, and managed to bring himself into the same condition.
Some students and peasants who chanced to pass during the next hour were much astonished to see the worthy professor of physiology and his favorite student both sitting upon a very muddy bank and both completely insensible. Before the hour was up quite a crowd had assembled, and they were discussing the advisability of sending for an ambulance to convey the pair to a hospital, when the learned savant opened his eyes and gazed vacantly around him. For an instant he seemed to forget how he had come there, but next moment he astonished his audi-
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ence by waving his skinny arms above his head and crying out in a voice of rapture, "Goit sei gedemktt I am myself again! I feel I am!" Nor was the amazement lessened when the student, springing to his feet, burst into the same cry, and the two performed a sort of pas de joie in the middle of the road.
For some time after that people had some suspicion of the sanity of both the actors in this strange episode. When the professor published his experiences in the Metticdscbrift as he had promised, he was met by an intimation, even from his colleagues, that he would do well to have his mind cared for, and that another such publication would certainly consign him to a madhouse. The student also found it wisest to be silent about the matter.
When the worthy lecturer returned home that night he did not receive the cordial welcome which he might have
looked for after his strange adventures. On the contrary, he was roundly upbraided by both his female relatives for smelling of drink and tobacco, and also for being absent while a young scapegrace invaded the house and insulted its occupants.
It was long before the domestic atmosphere of the lecturer's house resumed its normal quiet, and longer still before the genial face of von Hartmann
was seen beneath its roof. Perseverance, however, conquers every obstacle, and the student eventually succeeded in pacifying the enraged ladies and in establishing himself upon the old footing. He has now no longer any cause to fear the enmity of Madam, for he is Hauptmann von Hartmann of the Emperor's own Uhlans, and his loving wife Elise has already presented him with two little Uhlans as a visible sign and token of her affection.
BACK COPIES
Because of the many requests for back issues of Weird Tales, the publishers do their best to keep a sufficient supply on hand to meet all demands. This magazine was established early ja 1925 and there has been a steady drain on the supply of back copies ever since. At present, we have the following back numbers on hand for sale:
These back numbers contain many fascinating stories. If you are interested in obtaining oar of the back copies on this list please hurry your order because we can not guarantee that the list will be as complete as it now is within the next 30 days. Toe price on all back issues is 23c per copy. Mail all orders to;
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THE tragic death of Robert E. Howard has called forth a chorus of praise from discerning critics who have appreciated the genuine literary value of his work. H. P. Lovecraft, one of the acknowledged masters of weird fiction, whose keenly analytical mind has started many young writers on literary careers, makes the following comment on Howard's work: "Howard's death forms weird fiction's worst blow since the passing of good old Canevin [Henry S. Whitehead} in 1932. Scarcely anybody else in the pulp field had quite the driving zest and spontaneity of Robert E. Howard. He put himself into everything he wrote—and even when he made outward concessions to pulp standards he had a wholly unique inner force and sincerity which broke through the surface and placed the stamp of his personality on the ultimate product. How he could surround primal megalithic cities with an aura of seon-old fear and necromancy! And his recent Black Canaan (WT's best story in the last three or so issues) is likewise magnificent in a more realistic way—reflecting a genuine regional background and giving a clutchingly powerful picture of the horror that stalks through the moss-hung, shadow-cursed, serpent-ridden swamps of the farther South. Others' efforts seem pallid by contrast. Weird fiction certainly has occasion to mourn."
To which E. Hoffmann Price, the only Weird Tales author who knew Howard personally, adds: "I know of few people whose sudden death would be such a savage luck on the chin. Lovecraft says it is the saddest blow to writers since the death of Henry S. Whitehead—and I answer, saying, 'Be damned to writing—it's a lot worse blow to anyone who knew Bob and his parents.' Bob Howard was as complex and likable a 378
character as one would meet in many a long day's march. There is going to be much wailing among the fantasy fans, and just as much among those who read only Howard's vivid action stories in other books—bur the heaviest of it is coming from those who met him in his native territory."
Howard wrote his own epitaph shortly before his death, when he typed the following couplet, the second line of which is taken from the well-known poem by Ernest Dowson:
All fled—all done, so lift me on the pyre; The Feast is over and the lamps expire.
Oman's Strange Lands
Irvin T. Gould, of Philadelphia, writes} "It may be rather late to mention it, but your May issue of Weird Tales is the best collection of stories 1 have ever seen between your front and back covers. Child of the winds and The Room of Shadows top a splendid collection of weird! tales. . . . Glad to hear that Robert E. Howard is coming to the fore with another Conan story. I was afraid the rascally old barbarian was going to sink down in slothful ease upon the Aquilonian throne and not furnish R. E. H. with any more weird adventure material, but 1 guess you can't keep that wild Cimmerian blood quiet; so more power to him. I can't take enough space to give bouquets to all that rate it, so I have just mentioned those that have particularly impressed me. Bring on that Conan story. I'm all agog. Couldn't you prevail upon Mr. Howard to furnish us a map of all those strange lands that have felt the swish of that Gmmerian sword ? Or would that be in keeping with a weird tale? I leave it to you." [Mr. Howard p*ep*red a map showing the strange lands visited by Conan, when he wrote that superb weird
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novel. The Hour of the Dragon. — The Editor.]
The Falling Method
Corwin Sti'ckney, Jr., of Belleville, New Jersey, writes: "The July issue is excellent. I rank it second only to the April issue when rating the seven published so far this year. Lost Paradise ana Necromancy in Naat are in a virtual tie for this month's honors. Moore is practically unbeatable, while Clark Ashtoa Smith's work is always of the finest quality. Since each of these two stories is so different from the other, both in theme and in the style in which it was written, I do not undertake to evaluate one above the other. Let it suffice to say that I enjoyed both hugely, and would appreciate nothing more than a story by each of them in each issue. Ronal Kayser constructed a vivid, stirring story in The Unborn. Seldom have I read one more fascinating. Edmond Hamilton disappointed me with When the World Slept. It was entirely too obvious; I hadn't read two pages before I had guessed the story's outcome. I cannot at all understand how this yarn can possibly be called weird. It might pass—on a datk night—as science-fiction. But weird fiction—never! The other tales are good, especially Loot of the Vampire and The Return of Sarah Purcell. I haven't yet read the new serial or the reprint. . . . Peculiar thing: three of the victims in this month's stories—in The Return of Sarah Purcell, The Unborn, and Kharu Knows All, to be exact—'got theirs' by way of the falling method—either by jumping out a window or by falling down a flight of stairs, as in the case of Emma in The Return of Sarah Purcell. I wonder how many discerning readers will notice that Tim Cirewe (in Kharu Knows Alt) chose Kharu as his new name because it and his real name, Carewe, are phonetically alike."
French Phrases
Gertrude Hemken, of Chicago, contributes the following comments: "Now I'm gonna unload something from my mind that's been rankling me for yars V yars. So often in stories one runs across French .phrases, and it h take* for granted the reader knows what they mean, so no explanation is offered. All well and good. However, when one uses a spriakling of other foreign phrases, unless the author offers translations immediately
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WEIRD TALES
after, a great hue and cry arises, a clamorous howl of derision is sent up by the readers, telling the writer to remember this is America and to speak United States. (I've had experience in the above matter after introducing German into a manuscript during high schooldays.) So!!! Now for the benefit of the readers who are ignorant of Francais, either by choice or otherwise (or am 1 the only one who does not know the language?), is it too much to ask the writers to pen a few words extra of translation? For instance— 'Wie gehts —How goes it?* 'Taint so much work now—is it? And if I see much more of that French rubbish, I'm gonna hie me down to your editorial offices and rub those writers' noses in a few German verbs and tenses! And now for a placid comment on the bizarre and unusual: I am getting to like Clark Ashton Smith better 'n' better—his stories are acquiring a strangeness new to his former tales; e. g.— Necromancy in Naat. A new land, a new fate to befall victims of the wizards, braving a similarity to Zombie —but so utterly different— more repellent. And the ending pleased me —the hero didn't vanquish the villain, nor did he escape his doom and save his fair lady. Yesstr, Mr. Smith, you are pleasing me mightily of late. The verse, Hagar, by Edgar Daniel Kramer, wasn't half bad. He completes in a few breathless lines a story that is deeply imbedded within us all—fear of dark forests—fear of lurking, nameless unknown horrors, fear of natural phenomena that assume the grotesqueness of fearsome legendary spawns of other worlds. Ah me— 1 am so happy! Conan is grand, recalling former tales of men and dragons—Siegfried of the Nibelungenlied (now I s'pose someone wants to know what that means!)—St. George and his dragon—countless others— every nation has such a hero. I dunno as yet where the Red Nails come in, but my! it's exciting already; strange, possibly unexplored places. Goody—I'm just so-o-o happy, I could gurgle I Robert E. Howard gave the readers of WT one of the finest, most lovable brutes of a hero anyone could want. Conan is the embodiment of the kind of man everyone admires: strength and nerve to please the men; physique— wttnderbarf to please the ladies. Enough rawness to be yet a barbarian and still experience enough to be better educated than the majority of those he encounters. He has a mind strong enough